


Black Waves

by LadyBraken



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Child Abuse, Hunt, M/M, Manipulation, Ministry Bashing, Murder, Obscurial Harry Potter, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Third character narrator, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-02 01:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11498784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyBraken/pseuds/LadyBraken
Summary: Let me tell you a story. It is a story about what happen when a child is let alone to suffer. It's a story of how nobody could have see the end coming, a tragic story, really, of expectations, anger, love, madness, pain... A story that changed the world, maybe not for the best. A story of a boy I knew, a long time ago.





	1. A story no on wants to know

 

 

Let me tell you a story.

It is a story about what happen when a child is let alone to suffer. It's a story of how nobody could have see the end coming, a tragic story, really, of expectations, anger, love, madness, pain... A story that changed the world, maybe not for the best. A story of a boy I knew, a long time ago. A boy that was supposed to be the light of our world, but that was consumed by an internal darkness.

But nobody saw it.

All of you,who hear that story, I ask you to forgive us. We didn't know, Merlin, how could we?

This is a story that nobody want to hear again.

This is the story of Harry Potter.

Harry Potter was a good boy. A very resilient one. He was abandoned in front of the doorstep of his uncle and aunt by some very strange looking poeple. But I ask you all, what could they have done? It was chaos, outside. The boy's parents were dead, the poor child had saw their murder. Killed by the most dangerous and feared man walking the earth- Lord Voldemort. He was the child of the prophecy, designed to kill the Dark Lord since his birth. Oh, I had myself the privilege to hold him in my arms as he was only a infant. He was radiating with life... Our savior. He was our savior. So, after having killed the couple, Lord Voldemort had attacked the boy... a very bad choice, in my humble opinion. The spell rebounded, and the Lord was gone.

And it was chaos. In only a few hours, trahisons were discovered, loves ones were lost, hearts were broken. Dozens of people were arrested, some had gone mad. The Lord's most faithful had gone rampage, the Potter's friends had gone rampage. There was so much death already... The ministry was corrupted, the aurors were all mighty. Trials were forgotten. Make it stop. Everybody just wanted to make it stop. The world was set on fire for a night, a last pyre for the Dark Lord, and when the little Harry Potter was let on that terrible doorstep, his little fists clenching the letter explaining the situation for his muggle family, everybody thought it was for the best.

How wrong we were...

Harry was a very talented magical child. He had accidental magic, turning his father's hair green or summoning his fake broomstick. Every time, his parents celebrated it.

But he wasn't with his parents anymore.

Three years after the attack, the young Harry Potter was sitting in a small bed, in the cupboard under the stairs, completely oblivious of how wrong the situation was.

But well, three year old kids are often oblivious of a lot of things.

The door was open, and the TV was running in the living room, and a child was crying upstairs. A woman passed quickly in front of his cupboard. Aut 'Tunia, as he called her. A thin woman, bony, always nervous even in her affections. She rushed upstairs and went back with an enormous child in her arms. The poor thing was crying like all the legions of hell were after him, his chubby face red and swallow.

Harry, being the curious little thing that he was, decided to follow her into the living room. Baby Dudley was now jumping on his father's knees, his little arms in the air, babbling and laughing under the warm gaze of his mother.

And little Harry, being the great kid he was, felt no jealousy. He just stood and watch, hoping he could have a jump too.

He didn't notices Petunia's hard look until it was too late.

"Return into your cupboard, boy!"

Of course, Harry didn't expected such treatment. Petunia had ignored him before, but never talked to him like that. Of course, he didn't understand.

"Can I jump, 'Tunia?" He asked innocently.

"No, you cannot, jump!" She said harshly.

"But..."

"Go. To. Your. Room."

Uncle Vernon had stop playing with his son, and was now looking at Harry with all the disgust in the world.

It was the first time that Harry's heart broke. Tears blurred his vision and he clenched his fists. Why, he thought, Why are they angry?

"I didn't do bad things!" he exclaimed.

And with theses words, his cousin's heart turned red. Quite a normal burst out of magic, I can tell you, and quite fun too. Harry though the same, and chuckled, completely oblivious of the horror on his aunt's face, and the abysmal rage bursting through every muscle of his enormous uncle. Said man rose from his sit, disregarding his son on the floor, and silently went to his nephew. The silent approach was enough to stop any laugh- any joy- coming from Harry, and it was a fearful little boy that Vernon faced.

The man caught the little boy buy his shoulders, effectively lifting him.

"Listen to me, Boy!" he said, every consonant slamming its way out of his mouth. "I will NOT tolerate your freakiness in MY HOME. We FEAD you, we gave you CLOTHES! How dare you troubling our day, how dare you show your freakish face in front of us! LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID TO MY SON! Undo it! UNDO IT NOW FREAK!"

The more he spoke, the more the shook the boy. Of course, Harry didn't know about magic. He didn't understood. He had done something wrong, but what? And confusions lead to sadness, which lead to self denigration.

And that, my friends, is a dangerous mix. Especially in a young, influential mind.

As obviously, the boy wasn't going to do anything but to cry between his hands, Vernon tossed him into his bed and slammed the door.

The kid cried and called for comfort that he knew he wouldn't have. He was let alone, in the dark, in the cold.

They didn't allowed him to eat for the rest of the day.

Of course, Harry knew he could do _things_. And, if his family didn't want to believe him, maybe someone else would.

That's why when one of Dudley's friends came to their house, during a nice Sunday afternoon, Harry tried to talk to him.

The boy was a bit older than him, around six. Blond hair, dark eyes, a bit exuberant, always running somewhere, breaking some toy, screaming something. The perfect friend for Dudley.

But not for Harry.

The boy hadn't be introduced to the word "bully". But he would know the idea after that.

He had been forced to stay in his cupboard for a few hours. He was alone, playing with a small wooden knight he had found in a trash can. He was bored. Such a young kid in a close space, immobile, it can only lead to disobedience. Especially when said kid could hear the laugh of his cousin and cousin's friend in the bedroom, above him.

They seemed to have such a good time!

So Harry slowly opened the door of his cupboard, picking his head out to check if any adult was here to punish him. Luckily, Petunia and Vernon were in the living room, drinking tea with the mother of the other kid, talking about important things such as gossip, weather, golf, work, gossip, food, news, and the way Miss Hudson took care of her lawn.

Giving enough time for Harry to sneak out of his cupboard and run into the stairs to his cousin's bedroom.

He had never ask why his cousin had a bedroom.

Dudley and the other boy was jumping on a small plastic car with the obvious purpose of destroying it. Harry remained at the door for a moment, hesitating to enter. He had never been to this room, and had learned in the worst way of ever approaching  _toys_.

But even at this age, Harry Potter was very brave, so much so that it came close to irresponsibility.

So he entered his cousin's room, determined to play with him and try to convince the other boy that he could do some great things.

"What are you doing here, you?"

That was a you that sounded a lot like Freak.

"Who's that?" asked the other boy.

" 'Sort of my cousin. He's no fun and weird. I don't like him. Go away!" He made great movements of his big red hand, as if he were trying to make a bird fly.

"I want to play with you! I can do a lot of things! magic, even!" Desperately exclaimed the boy, clenching his little fists.

He didn't understand why they were mean to him. Why everybody was- he was nice and fun! Dudley was a liar, he only had to show it to that other boy.

"Magic uh? Are you like nuts? Like old'Mary, she said that she was a mermaid! Completely nut!"

"'M'not!"

"Yes you are! Dad said there's no magic! You're a liar and a weirdo!" exclaimed Dudley.

"You're the liar!"

The other boy seemed to think that he had enough and pushed Harry out of the room. The poor lad ended his arse on the floor, the door slamming on his nose and Petunia's angry footsteps in the stairs.

He didn't eat for two days after that. Who knew such a thin lady could throw such a tantrum? Well, of course Lily Potter could have, but she wasn't her to tell the tale, nor to protect her only son.

He didn't tried to talk to that other boy anymore.

A few month later- the boy had just turned four- Petunia thought it was about time for him to learn how to cook alone. If he wasn't good for anything, at least, that boy could be useful. Even if it had cost her to let him touch the family's food, it was better than doing it herself.

Of course, little Harry was far too small to grab the pan, and after a few unsupervised and messy attempts, boiling water fell on the boy.

Well, it attempted to anyway.

You see, magic is an energy which is rule by one purpose: to keep you alive. And as little Harry was very close not to be alive anymore, his magic acted, and sent the water to fall elsewhere, in a place were conveniently no little boy was around.

Unfortunately, little Harry's cousin was nearby.

"Papa! Papa! Harry did a freak-thing again!"

Shouting that, he ran to his enormous father, arms in the air. As Vernon got angrily closer to the boy, redder than a phoenix's feather (and much uglier too), magic reacted again. Of course, magic can only react depending on the character of the child, and Harry was such a sweet little thing that the worst he could thing to defend himself against the threat coming for him was to make him trip.

Therefore, Vernon did tripped.

Therefore, Vernon was pissed.

And that was  _bad._

And the realization of how bad it was crushed the little boy as he sa his uncle slowly get pack on his feet, a very, very dangerous expression on his reddish face.

The first hit got the head. The second, the belly, cutting off his breath. Then, a large sweaty hand took him by the collar and tuck him into his cupboard.

And little Harry started crying, whimpering, begging, telling his uncle how sorry he was.

Of course, harry's magic reacted, in a defensive way.

Vernon's hair turned green.

Because in his anger, little Harry couldn't even think about something more dangerous than tripping and colorful hair. It was quite fun and effective the first time, after all.

"Petunia, I swear I will put a locket on that damn door!"

Petunia nodded, nursing her boy, which was quite oblivious about everything, mostly because he couldn't see his father's hair. Otherwise, he would have found it quite fun too.

But Harry, how poor little Harry, had cowered in his bed, his knees against his chest and his head between them, sobbing. And the more he cried, the more things were shaking around him. And the more things shook, the more he knew he was going to get punish. His emotions created the energy, and the energy gave him stronger emotions.

He had no control.

He was a freak. It was his fault, his, he deserved what Vernon would do to him but oh god he couldn't stop he couldn't he could-

"Boy stop that NOW!" Roared Vernon, drumming at the door.

"I can't! I don't know what's happening!"

"BOY I WEAR THAT IF YOU DON'T STOP IT NOW YOU WON'T BE ABLE TO WALK TOMORROW!"

But Harry couldn't hear his scream through his own fear. It was making his heart drum and hurt, and his lungs wouldn't just take air, and panic was taking avery inch of his little and malnourished body. The more he tried to control himself, the more he knew he couldn't do it, the more he panicked. His toys fell from their shelves, falling on his head.

"Make it stop... MAKE IT STOP!" He screamed as the door exploded behind him.

His uncle and aunt swore. He had never heard such words before. One of his arms was broken later that day. The next day, someone came to repair the door, and add a lock.

But it didn't matter. What mattered, was that something very dark, a seed, a clock-bomb start flourishing into the child's chest. A lock had been put  _inside._

 

And that, my friends, is the beginning of the tragic and unfortunate story of Harry James Potter.


	2. The Beginning of the hurricane

_What mattered, was that something very dark, a seed, a clock-bomb start flourishing into the child's chest. A lock had been put inside._

_And that, my friends, is the beginning of the tragic and unfortunate story of Harry James Potter._

 

Oh my dears! I didn't expect you so soon. Please, take a seat! You're well? Tea? No, of course not, you cannot drink here. I miss drinking too, you know?

Oh, but I forget myself, you are here to hear more, aren't you? Yes, the Potter's case is quite... fascinating. Don't worry, I will tell you the rest of the story. It's not like I had anything else to do anyway!

A few months after a lock had destroyed Harry Potter's last hopes of freedom, things started to turn badly. Well, I mean even more badly than they had started, which means a lot, considering.

You know, I, among other people, thought that Lily's love would protect the boy from harm – most of it anyway. But we hadn't thought about the necessity of protecting Harry from himself. Quite a blatant error, I must confess.

Harry passed days in the cupboard, refusing to get out. Afraid to get out. Afraid for him and for the others as he was now totally convinced that he was a freak. That something was wrong with him. As a consequence, he didn't eat, and became thinner than any kid should ever be. His night were sleepless, or dreamless. He was trying to stay awake to stay in control of whatever was wrong with him. He was scared.

But in the end, his aunt had enough of that. Neighbors would talk if the kid looked like he just came back from a very unpleasant trip to Siberia. As school was getting near, she tossed him out of his prison, which had became his refuge, about as unceremoniously as her husband had tossed him in, and sent him cook something.

Of course, the boy thought it was an other punishment. Forced him to serve, to burn himself on the plates. He was too young to see the regrets in her eyes, or to understand that the best way to make him eat was to expose him to food odors. And it wouldn't look strange to Vernon, and start an other tantrum.

No, for him, it was an other punishment. That he  _deserved_.

Petunia's plan worked. Harry was a five year old child, and no child this age would voluntarily starve himself, especially in front of some hot pancakes. Little Harry did burn himself, but he did eat.

Of course, Harry had other reasons than just anger and childhood. Something inside his head, his core, his soul one might say, was pushing him to live, at all cost. It was the lasts remains of something that was dying from magical deprivation in him. From emotional deprivation.

The love one gives, as strong as it can be, is of no use if forgotten or tainted.

After he ate, Petunia sent the little Harry do manual work in the garden. Her way to say that he was too pale and could do good of fresh air. Or maybe she just didn't wanted to put her own hands in the dirt. Or maybe a bit of the two.

That was why a five year old, skinny, pale and utterly sad Harry Potter was planting geraniums in front of the Dursley's garden.

He was there, under the sky, hands in the ground, dirt on his little cheeks, trying to plant flowers with his clumsy -I-don't-want-to-fail ways.

Of course, Harry had never heard of sunstroke, something that happened when an unprotected head meet a glazing sun and hot weather.

And it was very, very hot that day.

It took about two hours of his efforts for the boy to faint a first time. Harry found himself lying on the bare ground, something hurting his side. A lot.

It took him a whole minute to focus his poor sight and come back to complete consciousness. Every inspiration hurt. He pressed a shaking hand to his side, where the pain was, and when he held it in front of his face, it was red.

Blood.

Harry was a brave child, and it wasn't the first time he saw blood – even his. But not that amount if it, combined with the pain and the loneliness... He was alone in the garden, alone in the street and utterly helpless. Something was in him, piercing his skin, and every breath was painful.

Harry cried. But sobs were pain, whimper were pain. Contracting all his muscles to prevent himself from moving more than necessary, he set out to locate what had been planted in his side. It was a pair of scissors that he used earlier; at least he thought, his vision being blurred by tears and myopia.

He grabbed the handle of the scissors. Harry was a child accustomed to doing things alone and by himself, and could only rely on his own strength to survive. It didn't even occur to him to call for help, or to go and fetch a member of his family.

In an excruciatingly slow movement, for fear of hurting himself more than he was already, he removed the blades. Of course, he did not know that one should never remove an object buried in a living body.

He screamed, twisting on the floor, clenching his eyelids and teeth. He tried to stifle the sounds, but the pain was just too strong. He felt every millimeter he pulled out of his flesh, cutting the skin a little more back.

Once he had done that, he fainted again.

But he didn't only faint, no that would be too simple. No, little Harry was a young magical child, and a very afraid one on the top of that. A very powerful one too...

As black dots started to stain his poor sight, he felt the magic escape his body. He felt it because, for the first year of his life, he had seen it. He had heard the word magic. The grass around him started to decay, and the garden tools start shaking. And Harry saw that, and he knew it was his own power and he didn't understand.

He was scared.

He started to lose control. Or, more accurately he gained an unnatural control over something that was so wild that control could only hurt.

Because he was so scared and it hurt, it hurt so much, and it had to stop and No!

It stopped.  _Apparently_.

As you may have guess now, these things never really stop. Putting fences around a hurricane isn't quite the best way to stop it, or to survive for that matter.

It took only a few minutes for Harry to wake up again – magical children are quite resilient, you see – and his wound was already halfway gone.

Half way was the problem in that sentence.

He was still bleeding. A lot.

 _I can't go home,_  he thought,  _I'll mess up the floor with my blood._

It had to be said that Harry had washed the floor earlier that day.

Little Harry, covered in blood and with an open wound just under his ribs, decided to enter in one of his neighbour's house in complete illegality.

I think he takes after his father, if I may.

Pressing his forearm on his ribs to compress the wound as much as he could (he had seen someone do this in one of the police series that Vernon and Petunia were watching on television), he staggered to the house of his neighbors, determined to go through the window if necessary.

Harry was a very small child - even for his age. He had no difficulty other than the pain caused by his wound, to pass under the barrier of painted wood. He had noticed that Aunt Marge's dog went there regularly to go and sack the flowers of the poor Mr. and Mrs. Dandelion.

He slipped under the fence with difficulty, leaving a red trail in his path. He clenched his teeth so much that they squeaked and struggled to make the pain disappear.

Little Harry was a brave kid. I must say that even know, as I'm a grown adult, I couldn't do what he did at the venerable age of four.

Having no luck with the door, Harry climbed on the windowsill as best he could, and fell back on the other side. Luckily for him, the house was built slightly differently than the Dursleys, and there was no sink or stove under the window, only a meter of void that snatched a little cry of pain from it as he struck the floor.

He sat up slowly with a grimace. He was totally unaware of the red puddle he had left on the floor.

Of course, no four-year-old child could have heard of hemorrhage.

He managed to reach the bathroom by standing on the walls to keep his balance. The owners of the house took a nap in their room and did not wake up to the stifled sound of the child's footsteps.

Harry went to the bathroom and started wrapping himself in bandages. It was quite clumsy, and useless, but the kid felt a bit better.

And that was something.

Putting back his shirt, he crossed the corridor in reverse on tip-toe, his hand well placed on the wall. Tho poor kid had learned to walk about three years ago, and had never heard about walking when not having enough blood in one's body.

He got back to his own home, well, the Dursley's home, to find Petunia pacing in the garden, looking for him.

The strong weight of fear came back to his frail shoulders.

"Harry James Potter; what are you doing? I've been looking for you for hours! What- Why did you come from the Dandelion's?"

As Petunia asked her questions, her voice grew louder and louder, and Harry knew he was going to get in trouble.

Big trouble.

His aunt crossed the garden with great strides and grabbed his shoulder. Her long extra-ordinary nails, like the rest of her person, sank into his shoulder.

Harry shrieked, his eyes drowned with tears.

But Petunia had no pity for her young nephew. Not when he risked tainting her perfect, so perfect reputation.

She did not notice for a moment the air that was distorted around the child's malnourished form. Or as his muscles trembled with spasms, as he sought to control the terrifying thing in him, and howling him out, to heal him, to free him from this hold that terrified him, to allow him to survive.

She did notice the hole in the Dandelion's fence, though. Priorities, priorities, my friends. It is quite fun how things appeared different of what they are depending of what we want to see in them.

Something I learned quite late, unfortunately. Too late, some may say.

But back to the matter of the tragic events of Harry Potter's life.

Petunia Dursley was a woman obsessed with reputation. She was a great woman with a great family because the people in her neighborhood thought so. A normal life, conducted without excess, without a fuss. The Dandelions were good people, because everybody thought so, and because they made the best cookies at the communal parties. Not even mentioning that their lawn was clean and green, even if a bit less luxurious than the Dursley's. Which, for Petunia, was great. No jealousy, just enough of contempt andrespect.

What Harry did could break this fragile lawn-equilibrium.

The angry woman crossed the pavement and her neighbor's garden with astonishing rapidity, dragging little Harry behind her as if it were nothing but a bag.

She had not even noticed the blood.

She knocked on the door three times, and at each stroke the little Harry felt even closer to faint. He was terrified, weakened, and the loss of blood and days without food began to be felt.

When Madame Dandelion, awakened by the noise, went to open the door, she burned her hand.

Harry was very, very scared.

The ensuing cry panicked Petunia. However, it's easy to forget that Harry Potter's aunt was also Lily Evans's sister. She knew what magic was, and she had already seen magical incidents.

Although she would have given everything, apart from her dear family, to forget these experiences.

It is also easy to forget, because of her reserved attitude and her voluntary inactivity in Harry's life that Petunia Evans was a very intelligent woman. Oh, certainly not of an academic intelligence, not even of a genius, of an artistic sensibility or something.

No, Petunia Dudley was shrewd.

She had always wanted to be normal, and had wanted it with talent. She had to reject her sister in every way imaginable, to the great shame of her parents. Then she had married Vernon, a strong man, not very clever but tender with her, and especially who loved her passionately. With her, she had successfully founded the family she had always dreamed of, and never, never before had a dispute broken out within the precincts of the Dursleys landmark. Even when she found herself embarrassed by Harry's problem, she continued to lead her lifestyle, again with success despite some incidents.

As soon as Madame Dandelion's cry was heard, a succession of thoughts occurred to , it was magic. She recognized its sensation and its effects. Then, the only one to have had magic in the neighborhood was Harry, so he was the culprit. Then Harry was a monster, since he had magic, and moreover dared to use it on his venerable neighbors, that is how unusual the boy was.

And finally, this boy was under her responsibility and tarnished her reputation. It was up to her to punish him.

Petunia Dursley was a smart woman, but a terrible, terrible one. I can't help to wonder, if I had knew before all of that happened... But there is no use to dwell in the past, or to try to bring back the dead. That is a lesson quite hard to learn, I know.

Fear. She started to feel fear.

Little Harry didn't even see the hand that hit him in the face.

But Petunia did see the black  _thing_ appearing behind her nephew.

Harry had sense the fright of his aunt. He had felt in him grow the will to  _hurt_  and the fear, the complete and crushing fear of himself, but above all, of his magic.

But the lock was strong, too strong to save him. He had put all his will in his fear for it to go away, and it did.

Away from him it was. Filled with his anger, his fright, his pain, his slowly constructing trauma, his strong, so strong will, but above all his magic. Because Harry didn't understood why he was bad, why he was hurt, and just wanted it all to end.

It only stayed a second. Petunia thought later on that she had imagined it, that terrifying tall and bottomless shadow behind the small frame of her nephew.

Harry was looking at her, pale as death. He was wondering what other beating he would have for his actions; it wasn't the first nor the last time something like this occurred.

"Stop it now, freak, or you'll have another coming." She spat, looking at him with disgust.

Abnormal. Freak. The boy was now used to theses nicknames. And he believe them. No one else could do what he did, something must have been wrong with him.

"Sorry, aunt 'Tunia." He almost begged. His expression was so desperate that his aunt's face smoothed a little.

Without another word, she opened the door.

"Mrs Dandelion? What happened?" She asked to the old woman, still looking at her hand with shock.

"Yes, I think so. I was surely just some static electricity. My old bones didn't like it!" She answered merrily.

Mrs Dandelion was an old, proud woman. She was about a foot shorter than Petunia, but one could say that she was representing what the woman would become in the years. She had the same clean house, the same perfectly cut hair, the same too heavy makeup, but without lipstick, because in her old-fashioned mind, lipstick was vulgar.

And she had the same disgust in the eyes when she looked at the young Harry Potter, albeit weaker.

But Petunie was about to destroy that last difference.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, but I saw... Harry coming from your house. I know it's the hour of your nap, so I imagined that he walked himself on his own. You see, I just left him in the garden to do something with his hands for once, and I thought that it could make him better. It seems... that I was mistaken."

"Oh my, Oh my Petunia! What a child! How are you dealing with  _that_ , I would never know! Thank you for telling me, my dear, I'm going to check if the little devil didn't steal anything. Do you want some tea?"

Every insult was another knife in the little boy's heart. He didn't even heard the answer his aunt gave to the woman. He just followed her, trying to blend in the shadows, not even daring to sit . His heart was beating so strongly in his chest...

The old woman was quick, too quick, to come back.

"Oh my god Petunia, that boy left blood everywhere! What did you do boy?"

It was strange how 'boy' sounded like an insult. Harry didn't answered, barely lowering his head in fear.

"He must have kill some animal. I've read that this type of kid liked to do that. You know, he is going bad Petunia, really you should do something!"

Harry feared that Petunia would agree and left him somewhere. Get rid of him. She wanted it this so many time...

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Dandelion, I am. You know, Vernon think the same thing. I didn't agree, You see, he's a delinquent, or he will be, but he's still my nephew... But if he do think like that, oh no! Blood shouldn't be on children's hands."

She said it, totally omitting how many time blood had been on the poor Harry's hands by her fault.

"I didn't!"

Both women turned to the angry and fearful little boy that had stepped out of his shadows. It was an injustice, he only wanted to heal himself without using some freakish method! He wasn't a bad boy, a delinquent!

"How dare you boy! My god, young ones don't know any respect, these days!" Exclaimed Mrs Dandelion, outraged.

"Stop lying, Harry." Simply said Petunia, already desperate.

"M'not! I didn't kill anything! It's not my fault, I just-"

"Stop that boy, God helps! You're the Devil's root, everybody knows that!"

"M'not!"

Harry had no idea what Mrs Dandelion was talking about, but he didn't liked it. He didn't liked how it make him feel. One again, thing started to shake around him, and fear came back over the brashness of his character.

"Yes, you are." Dangerously whispered Petunia, taking him by the arm and dragging him out. "I'm sorry, Mrs Dandelion. I should take him home, he'll brings to much trouble here. If you need anything to help repair what he did, just ask."

"Of course, Petunia, of course! Goodluck, my dear."

"Oh thank you, I'll need it."

She almost stormed out of the house, her grip so tight the it left bruised on the child's arms.

And that, my friends, was how Harry's heavy reputation started. Of course, we should have seen the lies, but once again how?

But I forget myself, Mea Culpa.

Meanwhile, the ministry began to move. It was rare for the aurors to record cases of magic in the Muggles, at least since the last war. Most of the magical muggleborn accidents involved only their family, or were so weak that no one paid any attention to them.

Again, we only believe what we want to believe.

And the ministry believed that the muggleborns were safe and happy with their family, each of them. How could it have been otherwise? How could they have thought otherwise? Not a single muggleborn had reached a post of senior official since the 1800s, and none had entered the wizengamot since its inception.

To my great shame, I believed the same thing.

Anyway, at a certain level of magic concentration over a short period of time and in a small area, radars (in this case camouflage and detection spells cleverly mixed) began to resonate.

The procedure was that aurors had to assess the situation by working with the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. The goal was to send agents as quickly as possible to clear the memory of the Muggles who had come into confrontation with magic, to keep the Statute of Secrecy in place.

However, the energy had only been detected one microsecond. It disappeared immediately.

This is why Arnold Dubonpois agent, I see you at the back, hi Arnie! So that's why Arnold Dubonpois, although dedicated to his work, decided not to refer to Auror office. Arnold was an almost bald and very friendly little man, formerly a Gryffindor, but most of all, he was one of the few obliterators who existed, and one of the (even more) rare competent obliviators. Surveying these kind of incidents was not his original work. As the name suggests, this work focused on destroying the memorial to the Muggles who did not need it. However, the agent who previously occupied the position usually had an accident, something really stupid, in relation with stairs, I believe, and Arnold had taken its place. The department, due to budget cuts, had decided to use Arnold, in need for money and extra hours, to replace the more competent agent.

Perhaps someone more accustomed to this task would have reported the incident, but Arnold did not. Something as fleeting could not be dangerous, was it?

I must say that his reaction was also my fault. No one was aware of the presence of the Boy-Who-Lived in the area, much less the boy being in direct contact with Muggles.

Where somebody more aware would have seen the danger of a magical incident caused by a boy powerful enough to anchor a Black Mage, if not the most powerful Dark Lord of all time, at one year on the job, Arnold saw only one anomaly on a card that blinked like a grotesque Christmas garland.

Little did he knew that this very mistake would one day cost his life, along with many other's.

Really, for everything. I'm so, so sorry…

But it's time for us to say goodbye, I believe.

Be careful, children, be careful, but not too much!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hy! Thank you all for the kudos and comment! And thanks to my beta, Star-Scrap!  
> I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!  
> ~LadyBraken


	3. The First Wave

Oh, here you are! Come on, sit down, sit down. My my, there’s more and more people! I’m glad. This is a very important story, you see. Very important indeed. 

The more I think about it, every and each of you have the right to know. After all, ignorance is what brings you here in the first place, isn’t it?

And it’s sort of my job.

So, before we continue with the story of the young Harry James Potter, I need you to understand something. Thus, we are going to pay a little visit to one very important person. I know many of you don’t want to see him again, or even to hear his name, but you didn’t care about Harry either, did you? And yet, you’re here!

Of course, I’m talking about Lord Voldemort. 

You see, after that fated night of October, Lord Voldemort passed his life as a husk. A ghost, if you wish. He passed from animal to animal, not even strong enough to possess humans. A real blow for his ego, as you can imagine, but his ego was the last of his concern at that moment. 

He was in pain. A pain none of us could have imagined, and will never be able to. His body was destroyed and he felt its destruction every second of his doomed existence.

He traveled, somehow, to Albania. 

Why? Well, Albania a a land of strong magic, with an important magical community and a very, very big foundation of Dark Wizards. That, and it was very far from anyone that might have recognized him. 

Lord Voldemort was too weak to be angry. He was too weak to feel fear. Too weak to feel. 

And that, my friends is an important notion that you would do well to remember. There are things far, far worse than death. 

Anyway, everybody thought he was dead. I have come to believe that he may have thought so as well. 

Voldemort wandered in the dark forests of Albania for a long, long time. He was used to the cold andthe starvation, mind you. But an human mind in an animal’s body is a very risky thing. It leaves traces, especially when it last such a long time. He was living hell, and maybe he deserved it. He was alone. 

But you are here for Harry Potter, aren’t you? Yes, people tend to pity him more than Voldemort, that’s for sure. However, the story of Harry Potter is always linked in one way or another of the story of Lord Voldemort…

Let’s get back to our favourite little boy. 

I regret to tell you that at the age of seven, Harry was as far from good as possible. A year ago, Vernon had lost his job- due to a relocation. That night he had used his belt on Harry for the first time. In the beginning, Harry screamed. Then… then he cried. Then he stood silent. 

He never begged. Harry was that kind of strong spirit, you see. But he learnt than making noises only made things worse.  

He grew in fear. He was afraid of his uncle, of his aunt, of every adult. Adults hurt. He was afraid of children, especially when they were in groups. Children hurt. 

He was afraid of himself, of his magic. Magic hurts. It was simple but very, very clear in the boy’s mind. 

He knew it was magic, he had overheard his aunt and uncle whispering about it. He didn’t understand everything, but he knew one thing: it was bad, dangerous, freakish. 

So, even more so than before, he bottled it up. 

A few months after that, Vernon found a job again. But unlike what one could hope and expect, things didn’t get better. 

Vernon… had gotten into it. It was so easy to hit such a young body. He couldn’t fight back. At first, he didn’t even want to. He didn’t understand why he was beaten, he hadn’t done anything wrong! The pain made him lose that type of logical thinking. He was abused because it pleased Vernon, and because it was how things were. But he had to stop his magic. It was the magic that caused him pain. He had to block it by any means. He knew that for sure. 

Vernon was a disgusting being. I need all of you to understand that. Oh, he was lovely to his wife, if a little  aggressive sometimes, but he loved her. He was a good father for his son. He had to be because it was his pride,name, and the future of his family; by extension , his very being. 

But Harry had none of these protections, worse, he was a freak. But his greatest crime was to be beautiful. He was pale, thin, small, with black locks framing his sweet face and bright, intense green eyes behind his long lashes. He clearly had inherited from his mother’s eery beauty, and from his father’s temper. With his large, bright eyes, he looked so innocent!

Vernon didn’t understand why he had so much satisfaction to taint that pale, smooth skin. He didn’t have that kind of comprehension of himself. But Petunia, oh the poor Petunia felt the uneasiness. The unspoken. 

Don’t pity her so quickly, she didn’t make a move. Yes, of course, you might say that no one did, but does that excuse her?

At some point, when he was seven, Harry tried to talk to one of his teachers. Her name was Mrs. Tacklebot, a young and timid lady. Once again, maybe someone with more experience would have handled the situation differently. Maybe someone who was less afraid of doing something wrong. 

But fate hadn’t favoured Harry Potter. And by extension, dare I say,  she refused to favor any of us

Harry waited after the class. He was quite nervous about what he was about to do, but he reassured himself, thinking that he was only getting help. He had seen one of the programs on Vernon’s Tv: _ if someone is hurting you, try to talk to the police, your family or a person of trust.  _

Harry had no family, and was quite scared of the police (what if they saw he was a freak and locked him up for the rest of his life?), so he went for the person he was supposed to trust. 

It is very common, for children around that age, and even older, to see a parental figure in their professors. Thus the numerous mispronunciations and confusions in the names, children calling them ‘mama’ or ‘papa’ by mistake. Sometimes it goes well, of course. The teacher become a mentor, or a protector. Sometimes… sometimes things just get awkward.

Mrs. Tacklebot was a nice woman who understood the bullying Harry was suffering.

She hadn’t quite acted on it, but she helped him in her own way, giving him sympathetic looks, or allowing him to stay in class between periods, such things as these. It was little, but it was enough for a child that was starving for care,among other things. 

Slowly, he started to feel hope. 

It was in the dead of the winter that he dared go and talk to her. He was cold, too cold, and it felt like he wasn’t going to survive the next flu. He had no choice. 

He rose shakingly from his seat, and made a few steps in direction of his teacher. She gave him a warm smile to encourage him as the other children were quite literally running out of the classroom (ah, the energy of youth!).

“Do you want something, Harry?” She asked with a gentle smile. 

He nodded. He had to use all of his bravery to lift up his eyes and whisper:

“I… I think I need help…”

He saw his teacher’s face paled, and convinced that he had done something wrong, lowered his eyes immediately. She was his only chance, as far as he knew, he couldn’t waste it. 

She sat on her desk, and waited patiently.

“Why do you need help, Harry?”

He looked up to her, opening his mouth hesitantly. He didn’t knew how to put things with words. Where to start? From what did he want to escape? He didn’t really know. He didn’t know anything else but servitude, he couldn’t think, this is wrong. He was used to the beatings, he couldn’t think, this shouldn’t happen. But he knew, something was amiss, misplaced, something, something…

“I think my family doesn’t like me.”

He had said that with such determination, his voice firm and sure. She had never heard him talk like that, Merlin, he had never heard himself talk like that! If possible, she paled even more. 

“I’m… I’m sure you’re exaggerating things, Harry… Surely, they’re just a bit mad at you for some reason… you’ve been punished for something, that’s why you feel like this?”

Harry said no with a sake of his head. He couldn’t let her believe that, she had to… to help him! But she only looked at him with some sort of pity, of distance…

“No, Ma’am, you have to believe me!” He asked- almost begged. 

She quite panicked at the despair in such a young boy’s voice. No training was given to the young teacher to handle deep childhood trauma - something that should have been done- and it was the first time for her.

“Ok, ok Harry, I believe you. I’ll… I’ll do something. Don’t worry.”

The boy seemed, and was, quite satisfied with the answer. He thought he had done well, talking to his teacher like the PSA on TV indicated. Maybe some adults cared? Maybe he wasn’t a freak, it was his family that was wrong. 

He had the deep down hope that, if he didn’t show any sign of magic, he could get out of it. He had understood, from what Petunia had angrily whispered to Vernon, that it was magic that had killed his parents. 

He just had to behave and everything would be fine. 

He returned to the Dursleys’ a little later than expected (he was supposed to arrive before his cousin, to have time to prepare a snack before continuing his other chores, doing homework and preparing dinner), and for this he received ten blows of sticks and a volley of insults, but he did not care.

Soon, very soon, he was going to be able to leave here. He was convinced of this. Was his teacher not the sweetest person he knew? The most comprehensive? Had she not sent him signs and encouraged him to speak to her? Of course she could have done something sooner, but maybe she needed him to ask for legal things and things like that.

He did what was asked of him, flayed his knees to wash the ground, went out in the cold to maintain the lawn - always perfect - without even casting a look wrong, without cowering in this desperate submission that gave the impression that his uncle could have even more power over him.

He was waiting.

The next evening, the Dursleys received a letter from the school indicating that the mistress wanted to make an appointment with them. Luckily for Harry, she did not specify  which child the appointment was for, since the two boys were in the same class.

Harry had no excellent notes despite his blatant intelligence, simply because if he passed Dudley, he could not eat.

This was largely enough to deter the boy from working. He even went so far as to sabotage his notes.

Yet, if anyone had really paid attention to him, they would have seen that the child spent his time surrounded by books in the school or city library.This is because because Dudley and his band never did.

In any case, the reputation of silly and silent child - some would tell you that he was somewhat disturbing, albeit still beautiful - prevented the family from even imagining that Harry might have the intelligence to attempt to approach another source authority.

No, really, in the heads of the Dursleys, the mistress summoned them to congratulate them on the progress of their dear Dudlynouchet.

Harry ate that evening and even put a bandage around his arm, which had been broken a few days earlier.

Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you about that. It’s quite logical, in fact: Harry was blocking his magic. He was fearing it. But magic respond to fear. In others words, magic was protecting Harry from what his mind and body remembered as threat, meaning magic itself. 

He had stopped healing. 

The next day, around 6 pm, the four inhabitants of number 4 Privet Drive took their car, all pumped and shiny (they could not afford to launch rumors of neglect in the neighborhood anyway!)  Pulling into the school, all of the passengers had a different expectation:

Petunia hoped that Dudley's efforts had paid off, and it was true that the little boy had applied himself to his studies after he had been promised a gift of his choice if he had better results. Vernon hoped that his family would be admired by all the other neighbors they could meet. For them to think: how beautiful, mannered, and normal! Contrary to this freak, that useless child he had to endure!

Dudley had hoped he would not get into trouble and that the mistress had not learned that it was he who had put Little Greg's head in the toilet.

Harry, he ... Harry hoped to find a friend, a support. He hoped the pain would stop that night.

Well, only one of them got what they wanted. 

The little family, if one can call it a family, entered the establishment with all the pomp which was supposedly due to them. In a way, the Dursleys behaved like our medium-sized pure-blooded families, not rich enough or important to have real responsibilities, but essentially self-sufficient to allow themselves to be atrocious.

They joined the professor in his class. The young woman was waiting, obviously a little tense, and made a sign to the Dursleys to sit down.

"Hello, sir, mrm. Heu, mhm ... I think at first it would be better to get the children out, you see?"

Her tone was hesitant, too hesitant, and Harry immediately felt that something was wrong. Something was not like it should be.

The teacher had not looked at him once.

Harry had many instincts, and they were screaming to him that he should run away right now. But, he had been beaten into some sort of devious obedience. He followed his cousin and waited in the corridor. Dudley didn’t know if he was in trouble, and therefor didn’t dare touch him. 

Harry was starting to feel panicked. His heart was beating fast, his breath was quivered, his lips crushed against one another. He waited, sitting still on a chair in the corridor. 

His curiosity getting the best of him, he decided to eavesdrop a bit. If only for his own safety. 

“...You must understand that the boy isn’t… normal…”

Harry felt like sinking into the floor. No, no, Mrs. Tacklebot couldn’t believe Petunia. It wasn’t fair!

“Yes I have heard…”

“It’s very hard having him around. He keeps lying to mess with us. He even broke into the neighbour's house to steal things! Truly, we don’t know what to do anymore…”

Oh, how the poor boy’s head was turning at that moment! He wanted to scream: Lies! All lies!

But talking led to pain, screaming led to pain. He only sat back on his chair, the back bowed, defeated. 

The drive back passed in silence. Harry could only brace himself for what was to come. 

His uncle beat him, of course, and broke two or three of his fingers and ribs in the process. It didn’t really matter. For Harry, it was only an physical manifestation of the pain he felt inside. Betrayal, mistrust. 

No adult could be trusted, and nobody would believe him. 

“You’re a Freak, do you hear me boy? How can you be so ungrateful?! We gave you a roof, clothes and food! That’s much more than what a … a freak like you deserves! Nobody wants you! Nobody ever will! You don’t deserve a name, you don’t deserve a home, nor a family! You are just Freak!”

His uncle’s words were ringing through his body and mind. He was shaking, but this time, it wasn’t in fear. 

It was in anger. 

As he was still trying to control his magic, because it was dangerous, Vernon tossed him, bloodied and broken, in his cupboard. Harry heard the door slam shut with a loud bang as darkness crept over him. As there was no light, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t know that it was coming from him.

With all the resolution his young heart could procure, he took the one and only pencil he possessed, the one with which he took all of his notes. I'm not going to lie to you, it was really his one and only possession. A shopkeeper had given it to him one morning when he had gone to get a special paper for his aunt. He shook his little hand and, blind in the dark, began to scratch the wall, ignoring the pain of his broken fingers, ignoring the sensation of the blood flowing down his forearm.

Harry.

He had engraved Harry. Perhaps to prove to the world that he had a name, that he was someone. Perhaps to remember it to himself. Perhaps to leave a trace, to say, Harry passed here, Harry lived here, Harry tried. Perhaps it was to forget the crushing loneliness and claustrophobia, the feeling that the cupboard was shrinking on him. Perhaps, it was to put all his rage into a physical action, to feel his muscle tense for something else than just restraining his tears or trying to cope with his starvation. I’m not quite sure he knew it himself. 

He did not cry, he was not crying for a long time, but his heart was heavy. His breath uneasy. When he had finished his work, he huddled up on the dirty mattress soaked with blood.

 

He had a strange dream that night.

 

He was in another world. A world where he didn’t have to give the slightest damn about good or bad, but only about what felt right. It was magical, superb, and he was powerful. 

 

But most of all, he was angry. He could see himself in the cupboard, small, pale, skinny, where he was doomed to stay because of one person. He was angry at that person, so angry… Everything was blurry as raw anger took the last strings of his conscience, as his will hardened on one and only idea: to make her pay for her betrayal. It came in waves, dark, dangerous waves of hatred, absolute and pure bliss of destruction. It hurt, but it didn’t matter. 

 

He moved. He flew, passing through the streets in a screaming whisper, in a black wind. All light shut down in front of him to let his anger pass. His magic filled every pore of his body, every drop of his blood, and it started running even faster and faster as he was getting closer. 

He knew where she lived. It was hard to hide such things in a small suburban area. 

 

He could see her. She had felt him approach, of course. Who could miss that unbearable pressure in one’s bones, mind, the shaking of the earth, the darkness of the sky, and the strange but terrifying feeling that someone was screaming outside, while the whole world seemed to be dead silent?

But Harry, oh poor little Harry, didn’t know what he was doing, for he wasn’t doing it. It was and wasn’t him…

He only wanted to hurt her like she had hurt him. So he attacked her. He attacked her with everything his young mind associated with pain. He thought about fangs, and it became fangs piercing her skin, he thought about his uncle’s belt and it whipped her, leaving bloodied marks all over. It was all around her, attacking from everywhere, gnawing her body, burning, and freezing all at once and in an instant, as the child was screaming his anger, his sadness, the unfairness of it all. And in a minute, she was dead. 

But it wasn’t enough. Little Harry had a lot of anger in him, years and years of abuse and neglect. He crushed the walls, he tore apart the clothes, the furniture, he destroyed everything he could. 

And then, there was nothing else to destroy.

 

Harry woke up in the morning, sweaty and tired. He only remembered glimpses of his dream, but it was just a dream, right? 

He didn’t notice that his wounds had healed. He did notice, however, the black hand shaped mark on the cupboard’s door, and the fact that the door was open. 

Afraid of what might happen if his uncle found out, he  swiftly closed it.

 

In the meantime, the ministry of magic was in panic. 

But I’m getting tired, and so are you! Oh, and the tea must be cold now… Right, there isn’t tea here, I forgot. You must forgive an old man for these things, I’m doing my best… Don’t worry. I will tell you how the ministry reacted, how Harry fell, how everything went… well the way they are today?

It’s not good to dwell on the past, but sometimes, it’s necessary. To understand. And please, my friends, don’t judge Harry too harshly. Remember, my friends, remember.

He was only a kid. 


	4. 4- Consequences

Hello hello! Already here I see!

 

Yes, yes, I know, it isn’t like you had anything else to do, is it? Not that I’m complaining. I enjoy telling stories, and, may I say, I am rather good at it. Stories to smooth the pain, stories to send people in the right direction, stories to give hope back…

 

That particular story is of a different kind, isn’t it?

 

For you to understand how the ministry panicked like a five year old losing his mom in a shop, you need to know how it was working before the incident. 

 

The ministry was ruled since years by Millicent Bagnold. She was a very efficient minister, mostly because she had been named under Voldemort’s rise to power, and fall, in 1980. She saw to political backlash of the Potter’s murder, she managed through the trials of the most feared and violent death eaters. 

 

It is said, but it’s only a legend, that she threw  threw a man that tried to bribe her out of a window . A fierce woman, I tell you. She was a clever student during her youth, I remember.

 

Said woman was very attached to the International Statute of Secrecy. She had helped to put it in place once again, after Voldemort’s downfall. Come on, don’t be afraid of his name! He cannot hurt you here anyway, can he? Anyway, she was known to have defended the wizarding celebrations, thus conserving our ways and traditions, with the famous sentence:  " _ I assert our inalienable right to party. _ " 

 

The declaration was, as you can imagine, welcomed by cheers and applause from the very serious (and maybe a bit drunk) assembly. She rebuilt the ministry, the wizarding Britain, as much as she could. 

 

The aurors under her care were the same ones that had fought Death Eaters. They were people that had seen war, death. Some had been tortured, some had lost their family, some had sent their own children to a fate worse than death for their country. 

 

They had had ten years to heal as much as they could. 

 

Some of them backed down and kept low profile, such as the Malfoys, for obvious reasons. Some just went back to a normal life, if such thing is possible. 

 

Some kept screaming ‘CONSTANT VIGILANCE’ randomly. 

 

You guessed it, there is no such thing like effective psychiatric services, a consideration for war’s trauma or a special service for veterans in the magical world. There were too many veterans and not enough wizards for that.

 

All these people could be separated in two groups and two subgroup. First they were dark and light wizards, meaning wizards that were in favour or against the integration of the wizards in the muggle world, including the acceptance of the muggle-borns. Of course, it wasn’t all black and white, mostly a lot of people wanting to survive and to assure their families’ future, but the lines were drawn anyway. Then, within these groups, there were the wizards who believed the Dark Lord was dead, and the others. Which mean that about half the ministry was fearing acts of Dark Magic as the announcement of another Rise, and the other half was fearing any kind of magic out of control, because it could break the Statute of Secrecy. 

 

The worst part was that there were people that belonged in two of these categories. 

 

It was exactly at 3:24 a.m. of the 12th of December 1987 that an alarm rang in the Surrey.

 

Immediately, all the aurors on guard received the order to go check what was going on. That’s how, at 4.30 a.m., Mad-Eye Moody and John Dawlish, aurors, along with Arnold Peasegood, member of the  Accidental Magic Reversal Department and obliviator ,  arrived at number 7, Abkey Road, Little Whinging, Surrey. Or at what was the number seven before what happened… happened. 

 

Luckily, the attack had happen at night; only a dozen of muggles were gathered around the ruins. 

 

Muggles weren’t a problem. It was true that there weren't many obliviators, even a fewer good ones, but such accident could be explained by a gas explosion, or something like that. 

 

That would explain the house. The corpse was an other problem. 

 

A corpse left after an obscurius attack have some very distinctive marks, mostly the fact the the victim was unrecognisable, and the weapon nonexistent. It looked like the person had burned, frozen, and was attacked by an animal with  very human precision... 

 

Something utterly horrifying, but, and it is an enormous but, obscurials aren’t supposed to exist. 

 

It is like a lot of things, racism, slavery… We think: it has disappeared, and if it happens, it is only in some far away country that we imagine as being somehow more dangerous, less civilized than ours. Ignoring the bigotry of the very idea, it is also dangerously false. 

 

The last obscurius acknowledged in the wizarding world was a certain Credence Barebone, and he was used by the feared and powerful Gellert Grindelwald. The last obscurial, was a young girl named Maya Campanula, in the 60’s.

 

Oh, yes, forgive me, some of you might not know the difference! It isn’t very complicated, don’t worry.

 

An Obscurius is created from an obscurial; the obscurius is the disease, the entity, while the obscurial is the child. Not every obscurial let out a raw obscurius, actually, almost all of them die before that, unable to contain the flow of power in their frail body. It is even more true that all of these children were abused - it is often the very source of the disease, which mean that they were weaker, and more inclined to...wish for death. 

 

Don’t gasp that way! None of this information is new or uncommon. First, yes, children suffer from depression. Especially when they are so terrified of themselves that they repress emotions, feelings, social interactions, and, in this case, magic. It isn’t uncommon for a wizard to die because he wants to. That’s why torture spells are far more violent and quick to act than muggle techniques in that area: if someone has nothing else to live for, his own magic will kill him, to protect him. 

 

It is sad but true. I myself had the displeasure to encounter that fact when I had to study the case of Merope Gaunt - Voldemort’s mother. Some may said that she died out of love, because of a broken heart, because of the delivery, because of the starvation, or the beating she suffered before. But no, her death was the result of a pile-up of abuse and depreciation that led her to undervalue her own life. 

 

Therefore, her life without the presence of the one she loved had lost its meaning. Her will was destroyed in a life of servitude and verbal abuse, making her depend on the will of her family. Without it, she only had the one she loved to give her approval. Her magic, feeling that the life she was living was considered a danger, started to kill her. I think that her death would have been much sooner if the baby’s magic hadn’t protected its host. 

 

But I’m losing myself! oh, my my, the bad habits of an old man…But these are important facts! It would be better if I told you everything.

 

Moody was the first to arrive on scene, of course, constant vigilance. He walked- limped- through the small crowd of muggles until he put his foot on the house’s landing. 

 

There, rolling his electric blue eye in all directions to watch both the sky, the basement, the house, and the muggles, stopping with suspicion on a poor cat passing by and who started to run for its life without any apparent reason, he began to murmur an infinite number of spells and charms to detect if anything could still explode in the muggles face, and irremediably to his own.

 

About a minute later, as it was the procedure, Arnold Peasegood arrived in order to take care of the now not in immediate danger muggles. He waved at Moody, who waved back without turning around, and started to work quickly. Arnold, who shares his first name with Mr. Dubonpois, but only that I can assure you (they don’t quite like each other), was the sort of person you feel like you can trust with your life. A bit like Mr. Weasley, he  emits an aura of a clumsy-but-nice father than could cool down any panicking muggle. Which was great, as it was the point of his job. 

 

He stopped next to a woman in her forties. One could tell that she had children by the way she stood and dressed, the way she seemed ready to run home with the slightest sign that there was still danger. From her point of view the wizard was an ordinary man, who, drawn by the crowd, had stopped to observe the disaster.

Certainly, he had some strange clothes, but in view of the hour, his wizard robes could be taken for pajamas.

 

“What’s happening here, M’aam?” he asked in a whisper, as if he was asking her to confess him a terrible secret. It is the best tone for rumors of all sorts, after all. 

 

“Oh I don’t really know, sir. We just heard… something strange. All the lights went off and it was like the very air was crushing us! It even woke the children, poor things! Then, we heard something like an explosion, and so I tell Peter- my husband- that I had to see, because if there’s fire it may extend to our house by the roofs.  I came here and well, you can see the rest by yourself!”

 

“Blimey, what a story! Did someone else see anything?”

 

“I’ve asked other people, but everybody is telling me the same thing, y’know? Light out and poof! The house crashed, or exploded or something. What do you think it is?”

 

“Probably an electricity accident. That would explain the lights!”

 

“Makes sense, but electricity, causing that type of explosion? I just hope nobody was hurt!”

 

“Merl- I mean Good Lord, yes!”

 

When he discretly removed some of her memories from the tip of his wand, hidden in his sleeve, John Dawlish arrived and joined Moody on the house’s steps. 

 

“How’s the situation, Alastor?” 

 

Only a few people were allowed to call Mad-Eye Moody ‘Alastor’, and Dawlish was certainly not part of them. But he was really, really nervous. For all of his career, he had worked on children’s incidents, such as colorful hair changes, and dark artefact trafficking. Now he had a muggle house destroyed and the very air was  _ reeking _ magic. 

 

Moody growled at the young Auror. He was a good element, after all, no need to scare him away. He had the feeling that this, whatever it was, was going to need a lot more aurors than expected. 

 

“Whatever it was, whomever it was, came from the outside. Fell on the house like a lion on his prey and left. Should have taken him an hour to destroy the house that much,” he muttered, almost for himself, passing his hand in his gray hair. 

His magical eye came back in front of his face and seemed to fix over something. 

Without a warning, he walked into the ruins. 

 

It was quite sad to walk in the middle of these ruins. You could see all the remains of life that had been here: tattered clothes, torn photographs, fractured frames, papers flying in all directions, furniture of the house had to be from a living room, with a room below, but everything was mixed during the incident.

 

“I’m not sure if it’s a good idea - Hey Moody wait!” exclaimed the younger Auror, trailing to follow his mentor and superior among what was left of the house.

“Dawlish, we have a body,” Moody said abruptly before taking a sip out of his personal gourd.

 

Dawlish approached the man warily, eyes fixed where he was looking. 

 

As you may imagine, it wasn’t a pretty picture that waited for him.

 

“We should call for backup.”

 

Moody only noded.

 

It took five more minutes for the wizarding press to arrive.Moody wasn’t pleased. 

 

A few hours later, a not-that-completely-clueless Harry woke up. He had dreamed the strangest thing, about screams and black mists. Yes, a dream. He couldn’t say that it was a nightmare because out of the terrifying imagery it had felt right. Not morally right, but… good would be a better way to describe it. He felt relief. 

 

He knew it was wrong, to feel that way in front of violent images, but it was just a dream, wasn’t it? He had only dreamed about a well deserved revenge. Nothing to worry about. 

 

He winced when he tried to turn to look at the small clock that was next to his bed. It was nearly 6 in the morning. He had only a few minutes before having to get up and prepare the breakfast. 

 

He pondered for a moment the idea of not getting up. Just… just stay here with the satisfaction of his dream, oblivious of the day ahead of him. He sighed, shivering under the coolness of the room. 

 

He was tired. 

 

Bracing himself for the day - and not noticing that his ribs were all healed, his skin scarred but not wounded, he sat on his bed and stretched. His hair was forming a messy black cloud of fluffy locks around his head. He tried to comb it for a few seconds, but of course nothing could tame a Potter’s hair. 

 

Petunia had learnt that one day, trying to comb it because ‘the freak should at least look decent in front of the teachers, a disgrace for the family really’. In despair, she had try to cut it. 

 

The next day it had grown back. 

 

He replaced his T-shirt (three times too big) on his shoulders in vain, the right sleeve just did not want to stay in place. He smoothed his shorts on his legs, also a hand-me-down from Dudley, and moved his hand toward the door to go out to eat.

 

But the door wasn’t quite as he had left it last night. 

 

Which, you will recognize, is quite unusual for a door. 

 

The door had black markings that slid from top to bottom, far too big to be from Harry's hand. The door was ajar, and the first boards, the closest to the lock, looked as if they had been destroyed by hammer. 

 

First, Harry was afraid of whatever had done that. Then, he panicked imagining his relatives’s reaction to it.

His first reflex was to quickly close the door and hope no one would notice. 

 

But Harry was a smart boy. 

 

He only had half an hour ahead of the Dursleys, but it was enough. This meant that he could cheatthe rules. He didn’t know who destroyed the door, maybe a prank by his cousin, maybe he had been a freak again…

 

But the fear of the beating was stronger. 

 

He had to be ingenious. If he couldn’t count on others, he would only rely on himself. 

 

He grabbed the door and put it back on his hinges gently, to prevent the noise from waking his family prematurely. The black markings inside were not important, nobody  paid attention to what was  _ in _ the cupboard. 

 

He replaced the boards gently, so that the fissure could only be seen if looked at closely. He took the screws and replanted them, slightly looser, to put the bolt back in place. Once that was done, he went into the closet that contained Vernon's garden tools which only Harry used since Vernon largely preferred to sit on his couch watching TV.

 

There he found the glue he was looking for. He went back to his closet and pasted glue to the inside of the boards, relying on gravity to hold them in place until the time it dried. Once that was done, he cooked the bacon for the family and broke eggs in a salad bowl, taking care that no shelsl fell in; It would be worth five belts lashes.

 

He took advantage of the cooking time to set the table and put away the glue. He grabbed his day clothes, piled in a corner of the closet, dressed quickly and closed the door cautiously. He returned just in time to turn the slices of bacon and hear the heavy footsteps of his uncle and the light and fast ones of his aunt upstairs.

 

Of course, the food was impeccably prepared, but he had forgotten a knife while at the table. He took a punch in his stomach that took his breath away. Without a word, without a protest, he caught his poor school supplies and followed Dudley at a respectful distance, to avoid provoking his cousin.

 

He wondered if it would be better not to return home. Something, in the pit of his stomach, was telling him that something wasn’t right, something more than usual, that is. 

 

By the time young Harry and his cousin arrived at school and sat in their usual places (Dudley at the far right, in the middle of his gang, Harry in the middle left, near a window), the Ministry of Magic had been informed that a large amount of black magic had been used in Surrey, causing the death of a muggle.

 

The public was also informed, thanks to the intervention of Rita Skeeter. That is how most of you were informed of the beginning of this tragedy, reading your paper in the morning in front of a chocolate or a coffee before going to work.

 

A dark wizard on the loose, there was something to excite the readers, to bring a feeling of fear and excitation. The newspapers sold like hotcakes, and everybody was waiting for the rest, and the answers.

 

This is how I, myself was informed of the situation, a few minutes before I received a letter from the minister. And this is how I enter into the storm that was the Potter case. 

 

There were only five wizard in the world that knew where Harry Potter was living : myself,  Professor McGonagall, the Minister, Mad-Eye Moody and Miss Figg. And all of us, knowing what we knew, thought that something was terribly wrong. 

 

That’s why, at 8.30 sharp, I was in the minister’s office, debating the situation. 

 

The minister was sitting in front of me, her head in her hand, looking quite tired and much older than the last time I had seen her, but who was I to make such remarks? 

 

In front of her, the newspaper was displayed. 

 

**_MURDER IN THE SURREY- WHAT IS THE MINISTRY DOING?_ **

 

**_Your very dear and devoted reporter was awakened by secret ways this morning at a strange hour. The only thing I knew was that something important had happened in Surrey. Of course, I did not suspect the gravity of the situation, but I went to the spot, with the eternal mission in my heart to inform you of all that is happening in our country, my dear readers._ **

 

The rest of the article was hidden, but I knew how devastating all this was going to be for the minister's career. Skeeter accused the ministry of committed budgetary displacements, lacking of attention of the aurors, and being visibly incapable of doing its duty and protecting the brave citizens of this country.

 

It was incredible how many people could read this tissue of lies. Well, there were only three journals in circulation, and one of the three was the Quibbler…

 

And objectively, Rita was good. Too good for our sakes, dare I say.

  
  
  


“The muggles have been handled. The problem is that the public heard of the story, and therefore we need to find answers quickly. This isn’t an incident involving a muggle, but a direct attack on a muggle by a magical being,” she explained, her long white hair falling from her bun. 

 

“Albus, don’t you think that it would be safer to move Potter from the area?” muttered Alastor. 

 

Oh dear Merlin, that was the question. Moving the boy would be screaming his location, the past and the present, at the face of the entire wizarding world. Which would mean that he would be in danger, along with his family. His muggle uprising meant that he was more at risk, he was utterly defenseless and helpless. Not even mentioning the scandal, and the message sent not only the the ex-Death-Eaters, but also to every politician in the wizarding world. 

 

But if we didn’t move him, we took the risk of the child being harmed, not in his house of course as the blood wards were protecting him - the very reason we put him there in the first place. But the wards weren’t active at school, or in the street, in the shops, anywhere a seven year old child could go. But, the attack was possibly unrelated with the boy, and moving would put him in an unnecessary danger… and kick the anthill.

 

Especially if the public discovered how the Dursleys  were treating the boy. That information, at the time, was only a deduction on my part. I had no idea to the extent of the abuse, but for the boy it was that, or the risk to be kidnapped, sold, corrupted, killed or Merlin knows what fate he could have if found by an ancient servant of the Dark Lord. And again, it was his family. 

 

Truth was: I was quite worried for the boy. But there were too many things at stake. 

 

“We’ll let the boy where he is until further informations. Maybe… ask the aurors to investigate around the boy and in his immediate neighbourhood? As long as the public doesn’t know where he is, there is nothing immediate to worry about.”

 

It was a question, and it wasn’t at the same time. Everybody in the room knew that I was the one in charge of Harry Potter. It was better that way. The minister nodded and wrote something on an official note that she sent to her secretary. 

 

“They will know, at some point. I’m pretty sure Skeeter is already putting her disgusting nose in the neighbourhood. And with Malfoy pushing me out on my control on the media, I cannot do anything about it…”

 

The silence was tense. Of course, Malfoy should be in Azkaban, but he was that kind of person that just got out of every situation without a problem. In short, he was rich. 

 

‘Is the victim identified yet?” she asked with energy. 

 

Crisis situations were more of her habit than not. 

 

“Yes. Mrs Tacklebot, 25. Muggle, single, no children. She was a teacher.”

 

Alastor wasn’t the most talkative man there is, that was for sure. 

 

“I know it is sordid to say it like that, but at least she’s a muggle. I don’t even want to imagine what it would be if she had been a witch - or even a squib. With the law on the magical creatures I’m trying to pass, my position is most… precarious.”

 

I didn’t frown at her for that. I knew she wasn’t the type of witch to think she was above the muggle, it was just that politics were a very cynical art. But the idea that it was a common idea among my pears… It felt like I had fought for years in vain. 

 

“I’ll keep an eye on the wizard community around the crime scene. there is only one wizard and one squib anyway,” blurt out the Auror. 

 

“Thank you Alastor. I shall be going, Minister.”

 

“But of course. We will take the necessary measures concerning Mr Potter; I’ll keep you informed.”

 

And with that dismissal, I went out to face the masses. 

 

At the same moment, Harry and Dudley were waiting, worried and excited. Their teacher had still not arrived, and Dudley’s little gang was starting to become agitated. Children that age often do after about ten minutes of waiting. 

 

However, it didn’t take long before someone entered the class, pale and nervous. How do you explain to seven year olds that their teacher had been murdered? I understand the nervousness, it took me years to master the concept, and my students are much older!

 

“Children, please, keep quiet. I have something very important to tell you,” he said, trying to keep composure. “You will not have classes today. I regret to inform you that your teacher died last night. We called your parents for them to take you home. I want all of you to know that a service have been put in place if you want to talk about what happened to someone. That will be all.”

 

It wasn’t the most… subtle way to announce the tragedy, but it did it’s job. 

 

Of course, when the Dursleys came to get their son, they did not allow Harry to get into the car. “As if I would let a freak like you in my car! Walk, you good for nothing cunt! This will teach you to make me waste time!” whispered Vernon angrily when Harry tried to put a foot in the vehicle. 

 

Harry was so shaken he couldn’t even answer. His teacher was dead. He had dreamt of it! What was happening? 

 

Something was wrong, he could feel now it in his gut. He was stricken by the not so irrational thought that everything was because of him. For the first time in his life, it wasn’t fear or anger. 

 

He didn’t know that it was guilt. 

 

He had to check, to see it himself. He had to be sure that his teacher had died in her sleep, maybe because she drank too much, or some other accident. That her house - unlike in his dream- was still standing between the other eerily similar houses. 

 

Not quite thinking about what would be waiting for him at the Dursleys if he came home late, he took the road to the other end of the town, where he knew his teacher was, used to be, living. 

 

He passed the streets as discreetly as he could, shivering. Of course, he didn’t have gloves or a scarf to protect himself from the harsh winter weather. He sighed and slid his arms against his chest, slightly leaning forward and hands curled in the sleeves to leave as little exposed to the cold as possible. 

 

There was a lot of wind these days, and it was messing with his hair, making it slap his face with every step. He didn’t mind, he was lost in his thoughts. He didn’t really want to know if his dream was true, but he had to. Something akin to morbid curiosity was pushing him, like when you’re paranoid someone is following you and you turn around to see, even if it’s not going to change anything. 

 

Harry armed himself with all his determination and ended up passing the corner of the street facing the house of his teacher.

 

He stopped in shock.

 

It was ... exactly as in his dream. Except that here, in reality, destroyed beams cut themselves on the winter sky like an inaudible threat to the heavens. Something heavy was floating in the air. He could see from where he stopped small points - people - walk through the ruins, inspecting the house.

 

Police officers.

 

He had committed a crime.

 

He didn’t know how but he had, he could feel it, he was here last night and he had… he had actually killed her and he had enjoyed it…

 

The realization that all this was true - was _ true _ , crashed on his heart and he began to tremble. Of guilt, sadness, anger towards himself and others, towards the whole world, but above all, especially from fear.

 

What if the policemen could find evidences? There were marks on the cupboard’s door! It was evidence, as in the police shows that Petunia was watching on Sunday afternoon. He had to leave so that he should go home before the Dursleys suspected anything, so that he would erase all traces …

 

And in his head he could only think: _ what the hell did I do? _ His body was frozen, and he could not look away from the ruined house that seemed to scream at him: assassin! murderer! Freak!

 

“Are you ok kiddo?”

 

Harry jumped and looked at the man that called him, and who was looking at him with worry. 

 

But he was an adult, and adults are liars. He was not worried, he just wanted to trick him into confessing what had happened.... And Harry couldn’t let that happen, could he?

 

“Yes sir… It’s just…” he stammered, trying to mask his real feelings - and failing brilliantly. Luckily for him, the man interpreted them in his own way.

 

“You knew the victim, is that it boy?” he ask, his face softening. 

 

“Yeah… shewassortofmyteacher…” the boy muttered, eyes stubbornly fixed to the ground. 

 

“I’m sorry can you repeat?”

 

“She… she was my teacher…”

 

“Oh, I see. I’m sorry for… your loss… Don’t worry, young lad, it was an accident. You should go to your parents, right?”

 

The man had no idea how his words were truly affecting the distressed kid. Harry closed and opened his little fist in a desperate effort not to lose control in font of the stranger, and before him laid the scene of the crime, of  _ his _ crime. He took a deep breath to calm down.

 

Harry nodded and went back home. As his head was lowered, Dawlish didn’t see his scar. But he most certainly felt that something was wrong, absolutely wrong with that kid. Maybe something haunted in the way his back seemed to carry the whole world.

 

He quickly went to inform Alastor of this strange encounter. 

  
  


And that, my friends, was how i was reintroduced to the young Harry Potter, while said boy was introduced to the concept of guilt. 

* * *

* * *

A big thanks to Rynn, my wonderful Beta!  
  
  


I hope you liked this chapter, please review!


	5. Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hyyy! Merry Christmas, Happy New Year everybody!  
> It took so long to write and correct this thing! I'm sorry for the delay; but I hope the next chapters will arrive a bit more quickly. However, my teachers are drowning me with work so I can't promise anything ^^  
> I'm trying to work hard on this story because it touch hard/ important/ complexe themes (and I really like it so yeah )  
> I was very, very happy to read all the reviews I got on this, thanks everyone! (And please continue to review haha)  
> You can still follow me on Tumblr under the name "LadyBraken"  
> An illustration for this fic is disponible on my deviantart page: http://fav.me/dbybh54 (I did it myself and I quite proud of it for some reason)
> 
> Enjoy this chapter!

 

 

Come on, come on, take a seat! Oh, yes on the floor is good too, of course. Ah! youth. I remember when I was myself a proud young man, hormones skyrocketing and with a pain-free back!

 

But anyway, it isn’t my story that you want to hear, is it? Even if I must confess, it is quite an interesting one, there is nothing quite like the one that is holding your attention. Don’t worry, it’s quite normal. 

 

As I was saying last time, an upset Harry was coming home. He was freezing, his cheeks pink from the cold, wrapped in his too-long clothes. Something was choking him, blocking his throat.  His mood matched the weather, tempestuous and fluctuating. Every fiber of his body was trembling in fear and self-disgust. He had become what Vernon had predicted all along: a criminal. He didn’t know how, and frankly, it was even more terrifying. Should he turn himself in? Tell one of the cops? But how could he explain to them how much of a freak he was, how could they see how disgusting, how dangerous and worthless he was? 

 

He stopped, pondering the situation. He should tell the cops. Yes, that was for sure, his duty. But what for? He knew he was a monster, and the very result of that… monstrosity was death. No jail, no cop could keep what had done that at bay. If the Demon- he didn’t quite know why the word had popped in his mind, but it had- was able to get through walls, then it would only endanger more people if he were to put himself in a situation where he would be forced to be among people. 

 

And no prison could be worse than the Dursleys. If he turned himself in, he wouldn’t really be punished. Of course, it was an excuse. Because, deep down, he knew that being punished for that was unfair. he couldn’t bring himself to do it because he didn’t really want to. 

 

What did he wanted to? To hurt himself, to hurst the others, to make the pain stop...

 

What convolutions one’s morals can go through, when unsupported by anything! The only thing the little Harry knew about right and wrong were his emotions and what the Dursleys had told him, so to say, not much. No adult could easily find the solution of such a Cornélien dilemma, what was a child to do?

 

But children never think themselves as children, they don’t have the same mercy towards themselves and their fellows that we do. So, the only thing Harry decided was that he shouldn’t be alive anymore. 

 

Harry was home late. 

 

His aunt appeared from the kitchen to scold him. “Where were you you little freak?” she said, “You’re not even able to come home on time. You really are good for nothing!”

 

_ Worthless.  _

 

“We accepted you into our home, we gave you food and clothes and this is how you thank us? By breaking one of the few  _ simple _ rules we gave you?”

 

_ Ungrateful.  _

 

The child lowered his head, keeping his eyes fixed to the perfectly clean floor. He couldn’t bear the disappointed, angry and disgusted tone of his aunt. It sounded too much like his own train of thought. 

 

Except that the voice in his head never stopped. Since he had seen the house it was there, it wouldn’t quiet. Petunia, on the other hand, ended by ordering the boy to prepare something for her dear Duddykins that was traumatised (sitting in front of the TV, leg crossed on the table) by the death of his dear teacher, the poor thing. 

 

But that order was even worse than the rest. It reminded little Harry that people were grieving because of him. Not only had he hurt his teacher (that had taught him so many things and been nice to him and was innocent, with her smile, and he had killed her, tore her apart, how ungrateful, how monstrous!), but because of him, other people were grieving. He had made people sad. 

 

He prepared the most beautiful sandwich of his life despite his shaking hands. His eyes lingered a moment on the knives - he wondered how they would feel against his skin, if they would be enough to get rid of him and the Demon- before serving the other boy obediently. 

 

He didn’t directly touch the food. Maybe his uncle was right, maybe he was ill. Maybe the Demon would touch his cousin, hurt him or worse, contaminate him if he touched his food. It didn’t appear to him that if it was the case the other boy would have been sick for a long time; he felt dirty and it was overwhelming his mind. 

 

The child was feeling empty. He was too tired to be sad or angry, so he stayed in an apathetic state that wasn’t really sleep during the entire night, staring at the wall beside his ‘bed’, and the little inscription on it. Despair was crawling in his chest, agonisingly slow. He could feel it humming inside him. 

 

He was locked. Alone. 

 

Pathetic, he thought. Not even a real criminal, not even something strong and terrible, no he was weak and dirty like a bug, a parasite. 

 

He looked at the wall and let his fingertips caress the word. He wanted it to disappear. He wanted to disappear. 

 

Tears were falling despite all his will. He thought he didn’t deserve to cry, he was the one doing the wrong, not the victim.He clasped his fists on the old cover that he was using as a pillow and buried his face in it to muffle his scream. 

 

The next day, I received a report. Ah, but I am an old man, and my memory isn’t what it used to be! Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’ve brought it with me. I thought it would be nice to show you some evidence, sometimes. It brings a reality to the narration, doesn’t it?

 

Don’t worry, I’m going to read it out loud. I know some of you have some trouble with words, I corrected your essays in my time!

 

Hum hum.

 

“Albus, 

 

We’ve been on the crime scene. Nasty business. Everything’s destroyed. Magic, no doubt. It’s dark, but I have never seen anything quite like that. Might be a new spell. Or a potion, like these muggle bombs. Whomever did it wanted to destroy everything, especially the victim. The corpse shows traces of torture, but we don’t know for how long before the death. It’s violent, uncontrolled, so I’m thinking the perpetrator is a newbie that lost control. Death Eater’s kid, maybe, or one that go away but took a brick in the face. 

 

The identity of the victim led me to think that the attack was random. A teacher, not much ambition, no family except a brother in America, no ties with the magical world. But the state of the house leads to the idea of a revenge, because of the rage and whatnot. Muggle-hater, maybe? I’m going to check if a Reaper didn’t get out of jail these in last few weeks. There’s no mark, no symbol, no claim. Could be a lunatic. 

 

We have to keep an eye open for other attacks. Be careful, Constant Vigilance (these words are underlined twice). 

 

For the moment, I don’t see any link with the Potter boy. One of my men saw him around, told me that the kid was strange. Too fidgety (he made three attempts at writing that word), looking at the ground like it was going to collapse under his feet. I’m going to send people to check in tomorrow, but the kid is safe. Probably just afraid/ impressed by the events or just living some kid’s drama. I’m going to send people around though, just to be safe. 

 

I’m far too old for this shit. I swear that after this case I’m going to retire. 

 

Respect, 

 

Moody.”

 

As you can see, Alastor’s prose is quite… Alastorestque, I might say. But the most important part, I thought, as I leaned back in my favourite armchair, was that the boy was safe. I must confess that at first I had thought that this was one of Voldemort’s crimes (who was, in fact, still possessing some innocent animals in Albania at that time), but if I trusted anyone to detect a Death Eater, and thus their master, it was Alastor. 

 

Looking over the letter, I saw my dear Nicholas, arms crossed on his chest, staring at me with amusement. He was still in his night-robes, of a magnificent shade of purple. 

 

“You shouldn’t be awake at this ungodly hour, Albus!” he said half-mockingly. “Your old bones will not accept such a bad treatment.”

 

“Not everybody can be immortal, Nico.” I said

 

It was an old joke between him and I. Am I allow to tell them, Nico? Good, good. So, as most of you may know due to that  _ wonderful _ book  _ dear _ Rita wrote on my person, I used to chase immortality as a young man. Well, it was more knowledge, possibilities, and power, but I would not have said no to immortal life. 

 

I met Nico a few years after Grindelwald’s fiasco. He had heard of me, thanks to my work, and invited me to France. Beautiful country, France. Mostly thanks to Mr Flamel, as I used to call him, at least. He took me under his wing. As you may know, Nicholas Flamel is the inventor of the Philosopher’s Stone, the stone of immortal life, among other deeds. After a few years of friendship, between tea and biscuits, he proposed that I rely on the stone as well.

 

Of course I refused. Death wasn’t something I feared anymore, and such power… Well, it was unwise to let myself touch to such a thing. What a joke! When I had finally eternity in my hands, I refused it. I said to Nico that I refused to be an old coot for more than twenty years. 

 

It made him laugh the first time, and decades after that, it still brings a smile on his face.  There he is, lurking in the back of the crowd. You’re quite handsome when you smile don’t you know? 

 

Nico gave me a kiss on the forehead like he did the first time I collapsed on his couch after too many hours of hard work. 

 

“Well,  _ old man _ ,” he said, “Do you want some non-poisoned-by-immortality-serum tea?”

 

I accepted gladly, and took one of my lemon drops. I wonder why there isn’t any addiction service for these, really. But my point is: at that moment, for me, all was well. The ministry could handle the press and one of my best men was investigating the case. My family was safe and little Harry was safe. The winter sun was slowly raising behind my window and warming the room, enlightening the beautiful garden Nico liked to take care of.  Even if the remarks on Harry’s behaviour worried me slightly, there wasn’t much more than usual to worry about. 

 

Of course, retrospectively, I couldn’t have been more wrong. However, contrary to a common rumor, I’m not omniscient, nor am I the second Merlin.

 

But let’s get back to the main subject of our story. 

 

A few hours after that, little Harry screamed himself awake. 

 

He didn’t have the time to really get out of his dream when threatening footsteps went down the staircase, step after step. A cloud of dust fell on his head, making him cough. He tried to make as little noise as possible, placing his hand on his mouth, effectively choking himself. He couldn't make any noise, or the monster would find him. He was too scared and confused to place where he actually was, to understand that the footsteps were his aunt’s, woken up by his scream and coming to check that her nephew wasn’t actually having a heart attack inside of her home. 

 

No, he thought that it was something coming for him, to punish him for his crimes. He had heard of hell in his school. He had read about it. He was sure of one thing: he really didn’t want to go there, even if it was where he belonged to. 

 

The footsteps were coming closer. 

 

Harry tried as much as he could to stay quiet and calm, but a pitiful whimper escaped his throat. His cheeks were still damp from tears. He couldn’t see anything. The only sensation he had was the noise of the footsteps above the roaring of his own blood in his ears, and the cold wall behind his back. 

 

The footsteps stopped in front of his door. The wood squeaked. Whoever was outside was waiting for something. 

 

Harry felt something building up in him. Some sort of electricity, power, something pressing from inside, craving to get out. Just as his fear was starting to transform into panic, the familiar, albeit unpleasant, voice of his aunt sounded. 

 

“Boy, silence! You’ll wake Duddy!” she spat from the other side of the door. 

 

Harry couldn’t answer. His voice was trapped in him, his fist clenched on his chest. If his aunt had dared open the cupboard door, she would have seen his eyes wide, pupils blown wild, and his face screwed into an expression no child should ever have. She would have seen his scar darkened and pulsing and she would have felt the intense oppression of what was growing inside him. Maybe she could have done something. She would have seen that he was sick with an illness that she couldn’t ignore. 

 

But she didn’t. 

 

She waited a moment, and then left. Harry heard the footsteps above him and everything went back to silence. He pushed out a trembling sigh. To be afraid of some noise, to cry, to have nightmares: he thought he was weak. Uncle Vernon would probably punish him for this. Harry thought he would be right to, as well. 

 

The boy curled up under his damp sheets and waited until the morning. Trapped in his own head, the boy prepared breakfast at 6 p.m. precisely, jumping at the tiniest sound. His aunt finally came down and Harry went to place himself in the corner of the room, in his spot. He didn’t look up to meet her gaze. He could still feel the tension inside of him.

 

Vernon and Dudley got up next, sitting around the table and positively stuffing their faces with the food Harry had prepared. The smaller boy, of course, wouldn't be able to eat. He glared at them behind his curtain of his hair. Of course he was envious, but his jealousy was mingled with so much self depreciation that his anger was turning on himself. Of course he wanted to have a family, he wished he could eat, he craved for the sweet motherly touch Petunia was giving her son, but he couldn’t have that. He didn’t deserve that. 

 

It wasn’t worth it, nobody could love him. 

 

He clenched his fists, unaware of the pressure his magic started to push into the room. 

 

“What is it, freak, you sick?” taunted his cousin, noticing his gaunt face and too-pale skin. 

 

He didn’t answer. He didn’t know if he could. It was like his voice had disappeared. He was too scared that if he opened his mouth, he would suddenly confess everything. 

 

So he only clenched his teeth and lowered his gaze even more. Maybe, if he ignored the plump boy, he would just go away and leave him alone. His cousin was many things, but patience wasn’t part of the lot. Harry was quite good at blending into the walls, making himself disappear. 

 

“Answer me when I’m talking to you!” snarled the other boy, pushing Harry to the ground. He hadn’t even noticed Dudley move towards him, concentrated as he was at trying to be non-existent. He fell on the ground hard, bruising his forearms and knocking his head on the ground. 

 

He just let it happen. He didn’t even try to get off the ground. It was useless, his cousin would just push him again. He stayed there, curling up in a protective pose, hands around his knees, looking at nothing, waiting for Dudley to grow tired of bullying him.

 

It didn’t take long. It isn’t fun to bully someone that doesn’t try to escape. And Dudley was still young, he didn’t yet have the cruel imagination that came from teenagers. He only kicked Harry once or twice and went on with his day. 

 

Harry would have preferred him to scream, to beat him until he fainted. At least, it would had meant something. 

 

He got up and prepared himself to go to school. 

 

He was, of course, reluctant. The school was where she had been. She would never go back, but he would, even if he didn’t deserve it. 

 

The closer he was to school, the more he could hear his own heart in his ribcage. The guilt and fear were too much. He wanted to cry at the simple idea of putting a foot in the damn building. What for? He couldn’t really work, he would be teased and pushed until he broke, and when he did, he would hurt them. 

 

It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t safe for anyone. 

 

He closed his eyes to muster all the courage his tiny heart possessed and _ break the rule _ . He waited until his cousin met one of his friends and started to pointedly ignore him, and he ran. He didn’t quite know where to go, but it didn’t matter. Somewhere without people. With a bit of luck, nobody would notice he wasn’t there. 

 

He wasn’t sure if that idea saddened or relieved him. He continued to walk among the empty streets. Every house was the same as its neighbour. The sun was slowly rising, coloring the sky with pale blue and the cloud with soft pink. It was peaceful.

 

He finally arrived in a small park. There, in one of the cabins which had been set up to amuse the children, he sheltered himself from the cold wind. He snuggled deep into his orange scarf, which was too big for him, and tightened his hands in his sleeves to keep them warm.

 

He liked being there. It was like a home away from home. He placed delicately before him the few packages of cakes he had managed to store; he always had them on him in case his aunt suddenly decided to do an inspection of his closet. He felt like a squirrel making reserves before hibernating. The enclosed space sheltered him but let enough light enter so that it does not feel choked, unlike in the cupboard. 

 

He wondered if there was a way to be forgiven. He couldn’t talk to anyone. He couldn’t apologise to a dead woman. Nothing could do that, not even…

 

There was a small church not so far from Privet Drive.  He had seen it during a school trip in the zoo nearby. He didn’t knew much about religion, and god, but he knew that people believed in it and that there was a thing for people that wanted to be forgiven .

 

The boy stood up, cracking his joints made painful by the stillness and began to walk.

 

Maybe he could fix what he had done, even a little.

 

It took him nearly an hour's walk to get to the church. The building was not very large, far from the gothic and richly decorated cathedrals that one could find in the capitals. It was a small Romanesque church, the walls of which were covered with ivy. Harry pushed the metal gate and crossed the well-kept gardens. He had never entered this kind of building. He was filled with apprehension as he pushed open the wooden door with his hands reddened by the cold.

 

The place was quite small, even inside. A little warmer than outside thanks to the wind absence. Harry was impressed by the subdued light, the candlesticks, the colored spots that the stained-glass windows painted on the floor. The place was austere. He felt even less in his place here than elsewhere.

 

“Can I help you?”

 

Harry jumped and turned around. 

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Did you want something, child?”

 

Harry didn’t know how to answer. The man was about forty, quite tall even with his curved back. A priest, his mind supplied. 

 

He was at loss of what to do. He had expected a severe man, already knowing what kind of a monster he was, punishing him and promising him the seven hells. But that? Nobody had talked to him like that, ever… not with that disinterested kindness. Except…

 

It must be a trap, he though. Who would want to be nice to a freak like him otherwise? Maybe he was even able to see into his mind, like the people on the TV show he had seen once. 

 

He kept his gaze firmly on the ground. 

 

“Son? Is there something wrong?” asked the man in the I’m-a-friend voice. 

 

Harry wanted to say that everything was wrong, that he needed the man to ask his god to end it right now before the Monster came back, but once again his voice was stuck in his throat and he was unable to make a sound. 

 

Feeling the kid was distressed, the man made a move to put a hand on his shoulder, but he stopped as soon as he noticed the wince on the child’s face. He wasn’t idiot, and in his profession, one could say he had seen a lot of things. People came to him to tell their secrets - even if there wasn’t as much of them as there used to be- and these secrets weren’t often sweet. 

 

He let his hand fall to his side to Harry’s relief. 

 

“Come, you’ll make a confession.”

 

The boy frowned but didn’t look up. 

 

“If you do, it means that you tell the wrong you did, but I cannot repeat it after. Don’t worry, boy. It’s my job and my vocation,” continued the man smugly, with a dramatic gesture toward the crucifix. 

 

Harry looked up and paused. 

 

“Sir, why is there a tiny dead man on the wall?” he asked, before clasping his hands on his mouth, afraid of the consequences of such an irrespectful question .

 

To his dismay, the man only laugh. 

 

“Oh my, that’s a long story. If you tell me yours, I’ll tell you his.” He said. 

 

Harry was a bitcomforted by the friendly tone the man used. It was like he had absorbed all the warmth of the room and  spread it along to anyone he spoke to. 

 

But a little voice in his mind kept telling him that it was a trap. 

 

He warrily followed the priest to the confessional, but he couldn’t muster his will to get inside. It was too small, too dark, to much like his cupboard. 

 

Taking the hint, the man motioned the child toward one of the benches. Harry sat, His hands dutifully crossed on his knees, ready to run for dear life if necessary. 

 

The man waited patiently for him to start talking. 

 

“I’ve done something wrong. A lot of things. Freakish things.”

 

The man frowned. He didn’t much like where this was going, as you can imagine. Words don’t come from nowhere, and there often the result of what parents tell their children. 

 

“Well, we all do bad things in our life. What’s important is to make amend and try to repair the wrongs, you see?”

 

Harry nodded, avoiding eye contact. It was easy to talk to the man. Because he didn’t know him. Not even his name. It was like talking to a wall. A wise wall, perhaps. 

 

“I… I can’t repair it.”

 

“You can still try. It’s the intention that counts. What did you do that you cannot repair yourself?”

 

“I’ve… I’ve hurt someone,” said the child. His face was twisted with so many conflicting emotions that a shiver ran down the man’s spine. Harry had pinched his lips, frowned, his mouth crooked in contained pain, and the man couldn’t help but to wonder: was it always so dark in here?

 

“I see. Well, you have to ask to be forgiven. The people, of course, but also to God.”

 

“To God?”

 

Harry’s voice was quiet and high with fear. It hadn’t occurred to him that someone more powerful than his aunt may have watched what he did. 

 

“Yes, and if you’re good after that, if you don’t do it again, He will forgive you. He will give you absolution. Like nothing happened at all.”

 

Something started to blossom in the child’s chest. Something like hope. 

 

“Do you want to tell me something else?” asked the man after a minute or so of silence. 

A choice. The man was offering him a choice. It was the first time in his life that things weren’t decided for him. 

 

He panicked... and ran away. 

 

When he arrived at the Dursley’s home, Aurors were knocking at the door. 

 

Oh oh oh I know. I’m an evil man to leave you there, but I’m afraid it’s time for me to end this chapter of the story. Ha, the faces of children craving knowledge have always been my favourite. Yes, I know, you’re not quite children, but if you could see what I see, you wouldn’t protest that much. 

 

I bid you good day, my friends. 


	6. The Accident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hy people!  
> First: sorry for the delay. I've been working quite hard on my new short serie Regulus ( go check it out), and my beta had a bit of trouble with internet. I will try to be quicker next time, but I can't promise anything as my concours is coming up. Anyway, here's the chapter!
> 
> I want to thanks all of you for the wonderful comments, especially Scaranpannoir: I love your work and I'm so glad that you read mine! I was very touched by your comment. I chose to write this story like my grand'ma tell me hers too, so I relate a lot (sorry for you grandpa tho).  
> Thanks too to YaoiReaperChan for all the niceness of your comment, I was very, very pleased that you liked my story so much!
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr at ladybraken, where I post a lot of fanart and can answer to questions is there is some ^^
> 
>  
> 
> For this chapter: Warning: graphic description of the violent death of a child. There is a small warning in the chapter in itself before the scene.

Hello hello! It’s been a long time I know. You must forgive the lack of energy of an old man… It’s not that I have better things to do, but we have all our time to talk about Mr Potter, don’t we? As palpitating as this story is, it’s already over… 

  


As I said last time, when the young Mr. Potter came back to Private Drive, the head full of the idea that maybe he could be forgiven for what he had done - for what he was- he saw aurors knocking at the door. 

  


Of course, Harry didn’t know what an auror was, but the long cloaks, serious faces, and poised manners led him to think that they must be inspectors - cops of some sort. He heart skipped a bit, and fear ran down his throat. 

  


The seven year old was - due to malnourishment - quite small for his age. As regrettable as it was for his health, it gave him the advantage of being able to sneak everywhere as efficiently as he had that one time in his neighbour's house. 

  


Oblivious to her nephew’s attempt to pass through the fence and hide under the kitchen window to spy on  these men, Petunia Dursley, like the good housewife she dreamed herself to be, opened the door to the two men. 

  


Now I need your full attention because a lot of things are going to happen at the same time. 

  


At the front door, Petunia opened the door to two uninvited - but not apparently strange - individuals. She looked at them up and down before inquiring “Can I help you?” This was asked politely, if a bit warrily. 

  


“Yes, we are here to ask questions about the incident of Miss Tacklebot.”

  


She looked at them up and down, lips pinched. “Do you have a warrant?” she said with disapproval. What if her neighbours saw them on the front door?

  


Luckily, Moody was under glamours. I dare not to imagine Mrs. Dursley’s reaction to his electric blue eye and missing leg. Not to mention… the rest of his face. It is already quite impressive to anyone in the wizarding world, Muggles would have been terrified.

  


“It’s just the procedure, Ma’am, nothing to worry about. No investigation on your family. Can we come in?”

  


“Oh yes, yes of course,” she said briskly. 

  


During those few minutes, Harry had managed to pass through the little hole he had made in the fence ( the perks of being the one repairing it, one might say). When Moody passed the door, Harry ran to the wall, where he wouldn’t be in the field of view of Ms. Fig whom he knew was probably watching from behind her once-white curtains. 

  


She wasn’t mean to him, but she could go and tell Aunt Petunia like Miss Tacklebot had. He couldn’t take that risk. He didn’t trust her. 

  


He stuck to the wall and crouched. He walked slowly until he was under the window, within perfect hearing range of what was happening in the kitchen and the living room. Aunt Petunia always let the window open during the day ‘to clean the air of  freakness, dust, and impurities,’ she had spat when he had asked. 

  


That thought made him blink to fight back the tears. But his curiosity, his fear, was too great. 

He had to know what these men wanted. He had to know if he was in danger.

  


If he had to run. 

  


As the little Harry settled in the snow under the window, Moody and his colleague sat on the sofa, trying hard not to stare at the strange black box in front of them. Moody had seen one or two before, and  it was always intriguing. He still hadn’t managed to understand how the Muggles made this thing work. 

  


Petunia came back with coffee, a sat across from her guests. Petunia was many things, but a bad hostess she was not. 

  


“So, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” she asked.

  


“Your children were in Mis Tacklebot’s class, weren’t they?”

  


“Yes, yes of course, my son was in it. A very good student, that he is! It’s such a shame what happened to Miss Tacklebot, he liked her very much.” 

  


The two Aurors looked at each other for a second. “Good, good. Did one of your children tell you something during the week that preceded her death? Anything might help us: if she looked depressed or worried, if she left class earlier…”

  


“Oh no, my dear Dudley didn’t told me anything like that… He is a good kid, but he doesn’t tend to notice that type of things, you see. But if she had changed her timetable during the week, that we would have known.,” she said, and then, more conspiratorially, “ We don’t let Dudley go home alone, you know. It’s not responsible, with all the… strange people one may find in the streets. Just yesterday, a Punk was walking on the pavement!”

  


Of course, none of the two men knew what a “punk” was, but they nodded gravely, immediately earning Petunia’s respect. Proper people hated punk it was well-known. Natural, even. Adding to that that, it reinforced her attitude that two officers - representation of the country’s order - agreed with her. 

  


Under the window, Harry was almost shaking with relief (and bitterness) that his very existence hadn’t been mentioned at all. It was like he had been forgotten already. 

  


He was invisible. He liked and hated the idea at the same time. He tilted his head in order to have a better sight of the room.

  


He didn’t notice that his breath was forming a little cloud in the cold winter air above him.

  


Alastor, however, did notice. Just like he notice the small frame behind the wall when they had entered the place. Just like he noticed Petunia was using a singular instead of a plural to talk about the two boys, effectively keeping Harry shut out, even in her speech. 

  


And Alastor didn’t like that. No, he didn’t like that at all. 

  


The records say that he thought at that very moment: “I smelled bullshit two miles around this house, and even with that the Dursleys kept surprising me.”

  


“Did you see Miss Tacklebot yourself during that week?” he asked, fixing his eyes onto Petunia’s. 

  


The woman immediately tensed, but smiled politely, her hands folded around her wrists in a nervous gesture. She fidgeted a bit under Moody’s stare, but kept a calm countenance. 

  


“Well, yes, but it wasn’t for anything important…” 

  


But, Harry thought, if Petunia told them why they had talked to Miss Tacklebot, they would know he existed. They would know he was there.  They would see he was a freak.

  


What else could they know?

  


Panic wasn’t forgotten for so long and rose again to crush his chest. He was threatened. He felt threatened. And thus, his magic did too. 

  


As the magical bomb that was inside Harry’s head started to grow again, Vernon was parking his car in front of his impeccable house. His mood was grim - his most hated colleague had just gotten a promotion (“ He probably let the boss fuck his wife, that fucker!”, silently raged Vernon), and of course, Mr. Dursley, despite the fact the he was a better salesman, didn’t get one. 

  


It was thus, a very unhappy and vindicative Vernon that opened door that day. 

  


Harry heard the noise of the car stopping against the gravel in front of the house, and he knew Vernon was coming - too soon to be normal, certainly far too soon to avoid a disaster. He stilled, holding his breath, and waited with horror for what was to come. 

  


Moody saw the car parking behind him through the wall, and the man (that strangely reminded him of oversized beef) got out of the car, his face already red from badly hidden anger. Not that Vernon was known to hide very well -- or even try to hide-- his anger. 

  


Petunia was too occupied telling the Aurors the latest gossip of the neighbourhood to hear her husband coming home - it had to be said that it was quite rare for her to be able to share all the gossip, as her only accointances were the very people she was gossiping about. Apparently, Mrs. Mackinnon had a lover - and not  _ any  _ lover, her husband’s best friend, could you imagine?

  


It is of no use to say that the Aurors in question were bored to death and seriously starting to questioning they’re life choices. 

  


Vernon’s steps sounded heavily in the corridor.

  


“What th- What is happening here?” asked Vernon loudly, barely stopping himself from swearing in front of the officials. 

  


“Mister Dursley,” Moody said. Of course he spoke politely, but something in his tone was implying that he really didn’t want to be polite. Luckily, Vernon wasn’t that subtle. Moody held his hand out for the large man to shake it with his sweaty palm; Moody had to resist the urge to wipe it on his pants. 

  


“Yes, that’s me,” grunted Vernon. 

  


“Vernon, these men are here to talk about what happened to the teacher, Miss Tacklebot.,” she said, and as her husband was becoming red again, she added quickly, “They are just asking a few questions, nothing to worry about.”

  


He nodded and followed his wife to sit next to her. His mood was far to improve. At least from where he was he could see the door, and if his nephew came home, send him back somewhere else before these men start to ask questions. 

  


You may ask yourself: if he thought that what he was doing was normal, why was he hiding it? Well, that is what a lot of abusers do. They pretend that their behaviour is natural, that their victims deserved it, sometimes until the victim starts to believe them. But deep down, when they face the mirror, they know that it’s wrong. Cases of abuse without real recognition of it by the abuser are rare, and fall under different pathologies.    
  


All of that isn’t to say that Vernon wasn’t insane, or idiot. Not a clever man, granted, and maybe not the most stable one, but he had no excuses. Chains of event, of bad choices, of bad temper, maybe, but no excuses. 

  


Most of them don’t. 

  


Petunia had followed her husband’s train of thought, but unlike him, she wasn’t happy at the idea of what might happen to little Harry later that day. She knew her husband’s mood was dark, and she feared that he would  go too far this time. He didn’t really control himself in these moments, she told herself, it was her duty to protect her husband from prison, and to avoid something too.... permanent... from happening to the child. 

  


Harry, on the other hand, was still frozen outside, body and mind. His hands were numb and he was starting to regret not having thought about taking something warmer to wear outside -- he still had two shirts and a blanket inside his cupboard. But if he had taken them, they would have been soaked in cold water, and he would have had nothing to sleep in…

  


He shook his head to send away his thought. He had to be really, really attentive to what was happening. Like in class, because otherwise he would forget things and have bad grades. Bad grades were good, because he wasn’t beaten for them, but also bad, because he teachers looked at him with disappointment, frustration, and then acceptance.

  


The last one was the worst, it meant that they truly thought he was stupid. Incapable of the easiest thing. 

  


On the bad days, Harry believed it too. 

  


Moody continued to ask random questions to the Dursleys (when did they leave the house, did they noticed someone strange? - question to which Petunia had made a very unforgiving portrait of the real Moody, indicating that she had seen “this frighteningly ugly man roaming around the other day.” The other Auror had to cough to hide his laughter.), but his attention was focused on the small child outside who was moving less and less with each minute that passed. 

  


The less the child was moving the more his magic was spreading, becoming thick and aggressive. It was curling, crushing, like smoke in an enclosed space. Something was ringing every bell in Moody’s mind and his well-developed paranoia was screaming bloody murder. 

  


However, he had factually so little proof or physical elements that he couldn’t act, especially in front of muggles. 

  


What he didn’t know was that each question was stressing the young Harry to no end, and the child was wishing for it to  _ end already _ !  He was cold, hungry, and tired. His hand were shaking from the aftermath of the fright he kept having, and he was quite sure that at this rate his hair would be whiter than snow before he reached puberty. 

  


Luckily, Vernon too was starting to be inpatient. His son would be home from school soon enough and he didn’t want the kid to worry about policemen in the house, no matter how decent they were. Surely, it would remind him what had happened and Vernon was adamant on the fact the Dudley shouldn’t had been even  _ aware  _ that such thing as death existed, not so soon that is. 

  


Too much time had already been spent on that little teacher - nobody was crying for her after all! Why were they bother good and quiet families about it? 

  


The tension and awkwardness was spreading through the room, and Moody took his cue to leave - he didn’t want the muggles to suspect something after all, and he wasn’t that good at obliviating. Better to avoid trouble, especially with all the public’s eyes on him and his men. 

  


So, despite the fact that every muscle in his body told him to take the child and run away to the Ministry with him, Moody rose from his seat, shook hands with the Dursleys, and continued his patrol in the neighbourhood.

  


Harry let go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

  


Vernon was following them to the front door, half to be a polite host, half to be sure they would leave his property as soon as they were out of the house.

  


Harry quickly walked to the back wall of the house, hoping to pass by the garden door and not to be noticed, but his relatives nor by the cops. 

  


But fate don’t favour the miserable, and the door was locked. 

  


Harry panicked and his breath started accelerating dangerously. What if he had to pass by the front door and Dursley wasn’t already home? It was one of the rare days he went home alone, because Pier’s mom accepted to accompany them. What if one of the cops saw him and sent him to jail? Worse, what if Vernon saw him? 

  


His uncle hadn’t screamed yet, but Harry knew him well enough. Enough to know the way his lower lips went forward, showing teeth as if his jaw was too heavy to be held normally, making him take deep, hot angry breaths. The way his vein pulsed under the red skin of his temple. The way he was constantly cracking his thumb in his palm. The way his movements were a bit too quick, a bit too much strength in them. 

  


His uncle was internally boiling and just waiting to find someone to release  his anger on. Said someone being Harry, of course. 

  


The child was terrified and his rational mind had stopped working a long time ago. He couldn’t go in by the front door, but the more he waited outside the more time he gave Vernon to find him and to brew his anger. Plus, it was far too cold outside to stay in the snow: his fingers were already starting to turn blue. He simply had to go in before his legs buckled under him and let him fall asleep against the snowy door. 

  


Petunia watched her husband escort the cops out of their home. She too knew what was happening in Vernon’s head. She looked around her kitchen, checking that the child had had the time to do all his chores in the morning. 

  


It wouldn’t do to give Vernon an excuse. 

  


Not that Petunia particularly liked her nephew more now, or cared about him even. But a scandal can happen quickly, and these cops might interrogate the kids afterwards. 

  


As she turned around, she saw it. The little cloud of white smoke under the door’s window. She pinched her lips even more when she noticed the the doorknob was turning without success, again and again. 

  


She sight. If she wasn’t sure before, now she knew there was nothing to do with  _ that  _ child. 

  


She pushed the key in the keyhole and opened the door, making Harry stumble inside and crash on the floor with a small  _ thump _ . She didn’t take the time to check on him, of course, and grabbed him by the collar before dragging him into his cupboard and throwing him inside. 

  


Harry heard the door lock behind him, leaving him in the semi-darknesses of his small room. He let himself fall against the door, breathing hard. His chest still hurt slightly from when he had fallen and his mind didn’t have the time to process everything that had happened. At least he was warm now.  He stripped off his shoes, coat, and scarf and put them in the farthest corner of the cupboard where the heating was on the other side of the wall. 

  


He put his trembling hands against the warm wall and flexed his fingers. 

  


“I hope uncle Vernon will not try to look for me…” he whispered to the spider running on one of the shelves full of bottles, tools and cleaning products. 

  


Ths spider stopped for a second, as if understanding what the child was saying, as if understanding what the child  _ wasn’t _ saying, before continuing its way. 

  


Any other child would have been scared by this behaviour, but Harry had accepted these little miracles a long time ago. As long as he didn’t consciously notice he was actually using magic, he was fine. 

  


Well, not  _ fine _ . Harry was very, very far from fine as it was. 

  


Shivers were running down his spine as his body slowly got used to the warm temperature of the inside. Of course, his cupboard wasn’t heated, and his relatives took care to cut the heating at night, turning the room into a little fridge, but during the day, it was nice enough. 

  


Harry closed his eyes, trying to sort out his thoughts. 

  


Cops were searching for him, but they didn’t know it was him. They would know he was a freak, they may not know that he was a monster. So what? 

  


What was going to happen to him now? What more than what had already be done to him could happen in prison? Would he be less free than here? Eat less? His young imagination summoned images of terrible places, dark, cold and damp, full  of people in black, screamings and green lights. If normal life was the Dursleys, then surely, prison must look like something like that. They would make him do pointless work all day long, without food or water, but worse, he would never see the sunlight again. Never feel its warm rays against his skin like a hug from the sky. Maybe, even, they would kill him. He had learnt at school that there wasn’t any death penalty in England, but surely for someone as abnormal as he was, they would make an exception… 

  


They wouldn’t believe that he didn’t do it on purpose, that he didn’t want it, that he was just a little boy...

  


No, they would only see the freak, and they would be right to. 

  


He was a freak after all. Undeserving of love, friendship. Surely they would know he didn’t deserve forgiveness or kindness either - just like his uncle had said. 

  


“Do you think I’m a freak too?” he softly asked the spider that had appeared again at the other side of the shelf. 

  


Once again, the arachnid turned around and stared at the boy for a moment, before returning to its activities. 

  


They never talked back.

  


Swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, Harry took his knees in his arms and concentrated on observing the spiders to forget the heavy footsteps of his uncle in the corridor -- far too close to his cupboard for his tastes. He couldn’t even really see them.    
  


His glasses had never been for his sight - they were some old thing Aunt Petunia had found, but as the years passed, they hurt his eyes more than anything else. Harry, of course, hadn’t noticed it, as his sight had lessened slowly. Without his glasses, he was almost blind, with them he could still see a few meters ahead. 

  


  


  


As Harry was trying his hardest to pretend that he didn’t exist, Alastor apparated to the ministry. Quickly, he went into his office, locked the door, raised the wards, closed the floo, and shut the windows. Then, he sat behind his desk and put a small file in front of him. Frowning, he opened it. 

  


It wasn’t in his habits to check the files - it wasn’t his job. And Alastor tended to stayed within the limits of his job - except when he didn’t. 

  


And something was telling him that Alastor was putting his feet in a very, very deep pool of mud right now.

  


It took him about two hours to give up. To be frank, even with the information that had been given to him by the order, he had nothing. There was no information to find. The night of the Potter’s murder was a mystery, where different sources contradicted themselves, and after that… Pages and pages of casual reports from Miss Figg about the boy drinking tea at her home, going and coming from school… Nothing that could explain 1) why the boy had been waiting outside in the snow, 2) why his magic was lashing out this way (there was only one report of accidental magic, a child set on a roof by accident, a powerful feat, yes, but nothing out of the ordinary), 3) why Petunia Dursley had refuse to even acknowledge his very existence, and 4) why the entire neighborhood seemed convinced that a seven year old was the worse delinquent that they had ever seen. 

  


His instincts were telling him that something was wrong, but he technically had no proof. He grunted, scratching one of the scars on his chin in a pensive gesture. 

  


If something happened to that kid, he wouldn’t forgive himself. Along with the other members of the Order, he had promised to protect James and Lily, and failed. 

  


He would not make such mistake again. 

  


Grunting, he hid the file in his desk, cast a few (very powerful) wards around it, lowered the ones that were around the office, opened the curtains, unlocked the door, and sat back in his place, head leaning on his fist. 

  


He didn’t have much time until his retirement. He wasn’t in favour in the public’s mind. Not that he really cared on a personal level, but he knew that the person that would replace him might do the exact opposite of his own action - if only to show off. Moody had been a Head Auror during Voldemort’s (please, don’t flinch at his name, it’s unbecoming) rise, and he knew how politics work, and where actions can lead. 

  


Alastor leaned back in his chair and sighed.

  


  


  


Back in Little Whining, Vernon passed the entire evening pacing, frustrated, lashing his anger out on everything that fell under his meaty hands. 

  


Luckily, little Harry stayed in his cupboard and didn’t move until the next morning. He entangled himself in the cover that he had since he was a baby as in a protective cocoon, and pretended that the small noises he emitted were not gulped, anguised sobs.

  


It was a Saturday, quite sunny for the season. That was the reason which pushed Petunia to take the kids to the playground. Yes, the two of them - no matter how much she hated her nephew, she couldn’t leave him alone at home for too long - he might burn the house to the ground with his “freakishness”. 

  


She didn’t know, of course, that it would be the worst decision of her life - despite, maybe, being a poor excuse of an human being. 

  


Harry had the most horrendous nightmare that night. His mind had mixed his fear of prison, remembrance of green light, cold, screaming (his mother’s, Vernon’s, Voldemort’s), and fear.He didn’t remember it later, when his uncle jolted him awake by screaming “BOY!” and drumming on his door. He had cried out during his nightmare. 

  


The image of a pale, monstrous face towering towards him was still engraved in his retina. 

  


At the second drumming, he knew he had to get ou of his bedt, unless he wanted a beating for breakfast. He wiped his tears from his cheeks, put on some old clothes, took his glasses and opened the door of his cupboard…

  


… only to be thrown back by his cousin, running in the hallway for some more bacon - not that he wouldn’t have had all of it anyway. 

  


Harry didn’t understand what had happened for long, long seconds - only that somehow he was back on his dirty mattress, facing the little  _ Harry  _ he had carved in the wall.

  


For a moment, he thought he would burst out of laughing, maybe of tears, maybe just explode, but he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

  


A few seconds later, he was serving breakfast to his uncle - knowing that he couldn’t have any. The smell made his mouth water and his stomach growl. 

  


“Don’t look at my food like that, Boy. You freaks don’t deserve it, so stop dreaming and go fetch the orange juice! You should be grateful to have a roof above your head already!” taunted Vernon with a mean smile. Harry obeyed, conveniently forgetting to tell his uncle that half of his breakfast had ended on his moustache. 

  


“Tell me Duddikin, would you like to go play at the park with Piers today? You could use your new ball and maybe the ice-cream man will be there!” cooed Petunia. 

  


Harry ignored the painful pit in his stomach. 

  


Dudley’s face illuminated immediately- that type of amusement had been rare since the demise of his teacher. He nodded with enthusiasm and jumped out of his chair to run into his second bedroom and gather his toys. Harry had to throw away the food the other boy had recklessly left behind and that he couldn’t eat. 

  


For all his self-hating mindset, when the slices of tasty beacon fell in the trash along with all the other wasted things, it was anger that boiled inside Harry. Somehow, a deep sense of injustice clutched his empty belly, drowned in the mantra that he didn’t deserve it anyway. 

  


Sighing softly, he close the trash can. 

  


“I’ll take…  _ him _ with us so you can rest, Vernon,” continued his aunt, putting a bony hand on her husband’s shoulder. 

  


“Are you sure? I want you to have a good day with Dudley… after what happened… I don’t want him ruining everything.,” said Vernon. 

  


“I’ll send him to the swings, and Dudley will play with little Piers. He won’t even be near the other children.” 

  


“Alright.”

  


Harry stayed in his corner, waiting to get the dishes, listening to it all, eyes downcast. He blinked to chase the tears away, but never moved. 

  


He knew he was unwanted, but it hurt each time. 

  


An hour later, they were all ready to go. Dudley had his red ball under his arm, bouncing around with excitement. Even Harry’s mood lightened a bit: he was allowed to play! no chores for an entire afternoon! That was a little miracle in itself. Maybe at the park he would meet new children and they would accept to play with him for a bit- if Dudley was distracted. 

  


Harry walked a few meters behind Petunia and Dudley, his aunt insisting on holding her son’s hand. He was kicking the little stones on the road. 

  


He had a very bad feeling about his all, but he tried to forget it. Usually he was left in his cupboard while his aunt went to the park with Dudley. He wasn’t sure why she had taken him with her today - surely to avoid bothering Vernon with his presence- but he knew he should make the best of it. 

  


It was a good day, he thought. Sunny, with just a bit of wind, so that he could let the rays warm the skin of his face. 

  


A few kids were already playing in the park. Dudley ran to them - Piers not far behind him. As tacitly promised, Harry went towards the lonely swing. He kicked his legs back and forth, not tall enough to touch the ground from the swing.

  


He watched his cousin playing football with the other children. Dudley kicked the ball into one of the children’s legs and they laugh at his clumsiness. The game started again and the tiny children were running back and forth, laughing to their heart’s content.

  


Harry sighed. He didn’t know if he felt good or if this jealousy was uncomfortable. He was used to it after all. 

  


He raised his head to face the sky and took in a deep breath, his hair floating slowly around his ears, tickling his neck under the heavy scarf Miss Figg had knit for him a long time ago. He liked the scarf, even if it had holes in it and it was threadbare at the ends- it was warm and red - his favourite color. It hadn’t been a gift, really, one winter he was just sittin on the front porch, waiting for his punishment to be over, and she had simply put it on him as she had passed. 

  


Somehow, it had warmed his heart - and his neck, even if he knew she didn’t care - as he wasn’t worth caring for.

  


“What are you doing here alone?”

  


Harry startled and turned around. A little girl that he didn’t know was standing behind him, a big stuffed doll in here hands. She was about Harry’s eyes, maybe a bit older. Her hair was separated into two braids which would have looked ridiculous on somebody older, but which surrounded her face and the fair plaits and gave her an adorable air.

  


Harry only shrugged, not quite knowing what to answer. Then: “Because I’m not worthy of anything that’s Dudley’s.” He said with bitter conviction. 

  


“Who’s Dudley?” asked the little girl. 

  


Harry pointed at his cousin who was running after the red ball. 

  


“I don’t know who that is. Do you want to play?” she asked on the same dismissive tone. 

  


Harry nodded with enthusiasm. She couldn’t see his smile, hidden under the large scarf that only let the end of his little reddened nose out, but she could tell he was happy. She held out her hand, and, after a moment of hesitation, he clasped his little hand in hers and she lead him a bit closer in the park to the other children. 

  


“This is Miss Dolly,” she said, sitting the doll next to them so they would form a circle. “Do serve tea to Miss Dolly, she likes it a lot!”

  


Harry didn’t asked how a doll could like tea, or show that she liked it and observed the little girl mimic something. It was the first time someone accepted to play with him, so he was a bit lost. It took a moment for him to understand that she was pretending to set the table. It wasn’t too far from what he was used to do, so he faked serving tea and giving it to the doll. The whole ordeal seemed quite pointless to him, but the little girl seemed so sure of herself, he didn’t dare to ask. 

  


“My name is Mary,” she said after being sure that her doll was indeed enjoying her air-tea. 

  


“I’m Frea- Harry,” stumbled the little boy shyly. 

  


“Now, Harry, you’re my friend!” decided Mary, with a pointed look. The idea of having a friend was so magnificent for him that he beamed and radiated with happiness. 

  


He had a friend! He wished he could just jump and dance around to show his joy to everyone, but he didn’t dare to move. 

  


“What do you think, Miss Dolly, can you be friends with Harry?” continued the little girl, turning towards her doll. 

  


The doll was made of purple rags which made him a pretty dress, belted in the middle of her body by a little piece of cloth. Her eyes were made from black buttons that fixed his gaze with an empty air, a too big smilesewn on her woolen face.

  


Harry was suddenly taken in an irrational grasp, that if the doll refused to be his friend, Mary would throw him away too; it was obvious that his friendship was worth less than that of a rag doll. This apprehension increased every second that the little girl went to fix the doll, waiting patiently for an answer. He felt threatened, in danger of losing the only thing he held, even if it was only a few minutes.

  


For a child as deprived of affection as Harry, the attachment to the few who could be good with him was very, very fast forming.

  


And, as we have explained, the magic of small children reacts mainly to danger. Not an objective danger, but what the child  _ feels like _ a danger.

  


As a result, the little rag doll got up and raised her arms to the sky as if to ask Harry to hug her. 

  


The little girl screamed. 

  


Not that the fact the the doll hand stood was frightening in itself; maybe she could have found it fascinating, or amusing, or she would have been comforted in the idea that her dear doll was alive. But, even if muggle cannot see or perform magic, they can feel it, especially children. 

  


And the magic from a Obscurial  _ reeks _ of threat.

  


By chance, the adults in attendance were too busy gossiping to take in a single cry in a park full of children who were causing chaos in every directions, but Dudley and Piers, they heard perfectly.

  


Harry started to panic after Mary screamed and did everything to make himself as small as possible. When his cousin joined them, accompanied by his little band, the young boy was already in a ball, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.

  


"What is it, Mary?" asked Piers, who, as her cousin, felt a little responsible - as much as a child can be at this age.

  


"He did something weird, I'm scared!" cried the little girl, running behind her cousin. 

  


“Yeah, that’s because he’s a freak. You shouldn't have gone close to him. Dad said it might be contagious!”

  


Of course, Dudley had to jump to the occasion to lower and humiliate his cousin; he had been raised to believe it was a normal and good thing to do after all. 

  


“I don’t like him!” cried Mary.

  


Dread filled Harry at her words. He was confused, scared, and angry. His heart couldn’t choose between hating her or hating himself, and his eyes started to wet. 

  


“But you said you were my friend!”

  


She hid even more behind the other boy at his outburst. The fact that she was scared of him was probably the worst for Harry, even more than the betrayal because it was the proof that he was a monster. Why couldn’t he stop these things from happening? 

  


“I’m not your friend anymore! You’re mean and weird!”

  


And that was how a little girl managed to break something every adult in Harry’s life hadn’t succeed to…

  


“Bu-” 

  


Harry was cut off by the slap his cousin gave him, making him fall back on the ground. 

  


“Shut up, Freak! Now leave the park or I’ll hurt you!” screamed his cousin, looking disturbingly like his father. The plump boy got closer to him with a smug smirk and gave him a kick in the ribs for good measure. 

  


“Nobody will ever love  _ you _ .” he spat. 

  


With tears in his eyes, Harry ran to the edge of the park, just behind the white fences that led down the sidewalk, then down the road. The place was actually not very big, and he could still see and hear his cousin, who had resumed his football game, a little further away. Now, Mary was sitting on her side, looking at her doll with suspicion.

  


Harry took his knees in his arms and sat on the ground, nursing his new bruise. He had a sore throat from holding back his tears but he refused to cry and be humiliated when someone found out.

  


He watched the cars pass, glareing at the little girl and the other children from time to time, sometimes observing from afar his aunt who was still talking to Piers' mother with great gestures of her bony hands.

  


Frustrated that his angry look had no effect on the other children, Harry ended up stubbornly staring at the ground, murmuring insults that were supposed to relieve his frustration. It did not work. With every bad word, Harry felt more angry, more distraught, simply because he did not understand. Everything was going so well, and all of a sudden he did not even have the right to go on the broken swings that nobody was using.

  


The fact that he could hear the other children having fun while he was cast out made his blood boil. He scratched his forearms, leaving red trails behind his fingers, trying to get what was ascending inside him in control to avoid any other freakiness, but it hurt and the cold made it worse .

  


Now I must warn you that what happen after isn’t for sensitive souls; it is a tragic story, and for you to understand what will happen next, I am going to have to tell everything in  _ great detail _ . Be sure that I do not enjoy it in any way, but I must warn you. Molly, please, do go fetch some tea, for your own good; and I feel like we are going to need it afterwards. 

  


Now...

  


… Harry heard the cries of the children come closer and saw from the corner of the eye a figure passing near him to run after a red spot. He recognized Mary, and, seized with a sudden surge of resentment, cast a glance at her that conveyed all the storms of broken feelings, tears, and hopes that swirled in his head.

  


The little girl did not see him and continued to run after the ball, which rolled on the road, one step, then another.

  


Harry was so angry that his breath had caught in his throat and his pupils had dilated, darkening the bright green of his eyes. For a second only, Harry thought that it all was _ her fault _ . 

  


All the pain, the anger, all the things that were crushing him. The electric feeling of magic on his fingers, the poison in his veins, everything that made him a freak and that made the others monsters…

  


For a simple second, it was all her fault. 

  


Mary stumbled over  _ nothing _ .

  


Harry watched in slow motion as the little girl lost her balance while she was still on the sidewalk, the ball still rolling on the asphalt. She fell, still between the earth and the sky, and the child's eyes widened when he saw the lights illuminate Mary's blond curls as a car approached. He heard the distant echo of the screaming adults, perceiving the danger, Piers' mother starting to run, though she simply could not get there in time.

  


The roaring of the car became enhanced as Mary's right knee slammed onto the asphalt and her eyes closed with pain, soon joined by the strident sound of the horn that lingered for hours. Harry opened his mouth, and a piece of parchment hit the little girl in the hip, making her fly against the hood, then the windshield.

  


A horrible crack rang out when the little girl's skull hit the windshield that split into a million shards. A splash of blood spurted and splattered Harry's face, whose squared eyes could not yet understand what was happening. 

  


Red, so, so _red_...

  


The screech of the brakes rose in crescendo as the rubber wheels smoked against the asphalt in a desperate attempt to stop what had already happened, and the car continued in spite of everything, while the body of the little girl rolled on the roof, each of her limbs bumping on the metal, before falling heavily on the ground.

  


The car stopped a little further away, and the weather resumed its normal course.

  


Harry stood there, staring unblinkingly at the little girl's body, whose still limbs were in impossible angles, open skull letting him see the grey matter behind it, a pool of blood slowly spreading around her. He felt something sticky on his cheek. As the screams and voices drew closer to him, he raised a trembling hand and put his fingers in the trail of blood that stained his face.

  


His mind still hadn’t processed what had happened, but his heart, his  _ soul _ , already knew. 

  


Oh, I feel that my story shocked you. But it is important for you that I do not hide anything from you, including the most atrocious details, simply because to understand Harry, you have to understand what he has seen and what he has experienced. .

  


However, I don’t want to overwhelm you, so I shall stop here for today. I’m sure Molly’s tea will be of great help. Take care, my friends. 


	7. Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo everyone!
> 
> Thank you for all your kinds comments and kudos! It really cheer my heart. So, this chapter is a bit shorter than usual - but the end felt good here, so I didn't want to add things and destroy the story flow ^^ I hope ya'll will like it!
> 
> Also, I finally know the end of this story (joy). So it will indeed ba a Harrymort. Just to confirm :)
> 
> Thanks to Adlertypewriter for the editing!
> 
> Warning: character death, graphic description of violence. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)
> 
> (You can of course find me on Tumblr at LadyBraken :* )

Hello, my dears.  I do hope the end of our last rendez-vous didn’t frighten you to hear the rest of my story - well, of Harry’s. Bad things often happen to the innocents, I’m afraid, and knowing it, and facing it, can only help you to understand the true weight of what happened to the little Harry. 

 

Yes, yes, I know. As you may see, the story took quite a toll on me too. I am, after all, but a man. My work was to care for children - hundreds of them, really. It is always quite sad to see our little ones suffering in any way. 

 

And what happened, after the girl’s death was…

 

...

 

… It started with an explosion.

 

The shock sent Harry’s mind into a maelstrom of pure horror, and it  _ shut down _ . It simply stopped the work. The emotions were so high that his brain simply stopped them from overflowing his mind. 

 

The child entered in shock. And as it did so, the parasite that is the Obscurus suddenly found a free reign over itself. But as it had now all freedom, it also didn’t have any resistance to break, any emotion to fuel its endlessly famished being. 

 

At this moment, my friends, it could have ended. When the voices around him dimmed through the fog of his paralyzed conscience, yet appeared to him as clear as if they were his own thought, the Obscurus could have been reabsorbed by a lack of fuel. It conceivably might have been  reabsorbed , like a sad child would put himself in a foetal position, make himself a small as possible to avoid being hurt. Perhaps it  could have stayed that way, as a dark pit rumbling in the child’s stomach, waiting for years to be grown again, as his magic, trying to save the child by destroying itself, would produce more and more darknesses. If such things had happened, Harry would have been a very powerful Dark Wizard, perhaps maybe, if his temper had cooled down and the trauma taken over, a Dark Lord. He would have died young, but still older than what truly happened. 

 

Or maybe, as it muffled itself, it would have forcibly taken into the oblivious magic child’s core, and thus his very life, and Harry Potter would have simply imploded and perish, if not painfully, at least quickly. 

 

However, as you may have guessed, none of that happened. 

 

I sometimes surprise myself and wish that it had. 

 

No, instead, as the parasite dug its way to the small child’s core, it found something else to feed on.  

 

Something darker. A link to a rage unknown to any other being, something exacerbated by years and years of fear, hate and murderous intents…

 

A Horcrux. 

 

Ah, yes, I see some of you shiver. Other frown, that’s understandable. No need to be compunctiousif you don’t know what it means; knowledge about Horcruxes is restricted to madmen and people hunting said madmen. And even these people often do not entirely know every step of the Horcruxes creation. 

 

It is for the best, believe me. 

 

However, I must now explain what a Horcrux is…

 

A Horcrux is a piece of someone’s soul that was ripped apart from the main piece when the wizard committed the worst crime imaginable. We may simplify it by saying that said action is murder- however, those of you here that had to kill someone for any reason - and especially during wartime- would know that  _ murder  _ isn’t enough. I’ll let your imagination run on the … necessary condition to drive one to break one’s soul. 

 

The soul is always pure, and must remain so. When it breaks, the breaking part turns against its previous host in horror of the putrescence that is destroying it’s very being.  The wizard then uses his own pain to shove the soul in an object and seal it there. 

 

The traumatised piece of soul, thus isolated from everything, stays cognizant. It is a part of a being, with emotions, reflexions and a mind that reflected it’s former host’s at the moment it was separated. Full of hope, pain, anger, and disgust...

 

And it will turn  _ mad _ . 

 

Why would someone do that? What would push someone to these lengths? I’d say the oldest and most foolish dream of mankind: Immortality. 

 

How Harry managed to have this parasite clutching on his core is another story, that we will keep for later.  

 

The Obscurus, attracted by the pit of despair that it was,  _ touched _ the Horcrux. 

 

It awoke. 

 

And the Horcrux, a parasite that exists for the sole goal of survival, burst shots of pure hatred into the child’s veins. 

 

When Harry suddenly came back to his senses, Petunia had raised her hand to slap the boy - after calling him many times and shaking him without result. But of course, Harry didn’t know that. All he saw was the hand raised, starting to fall to  _ hit  _ him, to  _ hurt  _ him. 

 

And his magic wanted to protect. And the Obscurus wanted to protect him, even if that meant to destroy him eventually. 

 

And the Horcrux wanted to kill.

Harry breathed in once. 

 

The magic, charged with his exacerbated fears and anger exploded out of the boy. It got out of him as a dark, cutting smoke that only Harry could see. But small Harry couldn’t see much under the onslaught of emotions coursing through his mind and body.

 

And to be truthful, I think Harry didn’t want to see anymore. 

 

Oblivious to the small child cocooning in its center, the Obscurus attacked. Harry heard muffled screams, shots of blurry colors, green, black, grey, and suddenly red, everywhere. He felt pain, but numbed, like it was someone else that was hurting. The idea to fight, to shout crossed his mind- 

 

\- but what for?

 

It was too late, he already was a monster. The head was heaving and his breathing was hoarse, but it was so good in there, warm. All the colors, all the sounds lulled him in some sort of distracted attention, passively looking at the scene from his little cloud, like one would watch TV. 

 

He distantly felt his skin crack and crawl and rip. He felt his muscles, his bones turn into ashes, into a black, thick, hateful smoke until there was so little left of him that he wasn’t sure there was a him anymore.

 

A woman screamed a name - Harry- but he wasn’t really sure who that was. Did it really matter? He didn’t want to get out of this numbness, and he knew deep down that a single move, a single second of concentration would break everything and the pain would come back. 

 

So he held his breath until he couldn’t anymore. 

 

The power surrounding him had steadily increased its pressure on his chest, on his skull. It was like a drug, and suddenly, it was too much. 

 

He didn’t want to be nothing - he didn’t want to die. He wanted to eat cherry ice-cream for the first time of his life, to feel its sticky trickles on his fingers. He wanted to sleep in a bed with a real blanket and even a pillow - maybe a teddy bear. He wanted to be hugged and to feel the summer sun on his skin again. In one pure blow of will, of determination, he wanted it to stop. Everything the child had bottled up in him hit him viciously, and he cried and he screamed-

 

And his scream echoed in the park. He was sitting on the grass, eyes lost. 

 

Consciousness, sentience came back to him suddenly. The sky was clear, and a fresh breeze dried his tear-streak cheeks, making his hair tickle his neck as it flew softly around his head. Birds were singing in the trees and flying happily in the bright blue sky. 

 

The pain and the pressure had disappeared so suddenly that it left Harry in a state of shock, half searching for the sensation that had enveloped him whole only a few seconds before, gulping air like a fish out of water. He swallowed a few times to ease his aching throat. 

 

He looked around him, the park was deserted. How had he ended up on the other end of it, he had no idea. 

 

His eyes landed on something. Something red, gruesome, something he shouldn’t see. The pain - the mental pain- was slowly increasing and Harry still didn’t understand what he was seeing. 

 

A whimper rose from the back of his throat, a strangled sound that sounded like a hurt animal. It grew and grew into a full moan, a cry, and then, almost a scream as his young features twisted in an expression that shouldn’t be seen on anyone’s face - let alone a child. 

 

Before he had the time to fully understand the situation, his magic did what it was supposed to do: it saved him.

 

And Harry Potter apparated away. 

 

About ten seconds later, Alastor apparated in the park, before quickly popping away to look for reinforcements. 

 

All of them stayed like that, blank, unseeing eyes staring sometimes at the sky, sometimes somewhere on the land, droplets of blood slowly dripping on the grass, shredded clothes barely covering the cooling skin. 

 

Later, dozens of Aurors, Unspeakables, and diverse ministry’s workers apparated in the parc. It took a long, silent moment before anyone dared to move. Before them laid about twenty corpses, most of them children. There wasn't a living soul left, and, to tell the truth, perhaps it was for the best considering in which state the dead were in.  

 

Then, the circus started. Unspeakables noting any trace of unusual magic, the Aurors looking for clues on the culprit, Obliviators taking care of the few muggles that were starting to gather around the crime scene. 

 

I was myself informed of the deed by Alastor, who came barging in my office like Severus would in one of his classrooms. I was about to comment on the fact that manners weren’t yet overrated when I saw the grim look on his face. Alastor always looked grim, but in front of some particular horrors, his face tends to make a peculiar grimace. I crossed my hands over my chest, laying back in my armchair, waiting for the news. Experience taught me that worrying and panicking only did harm, especially when the situation was larger than what it first appeared to be. The Auror sat - landed - on a chair on the other side of my desk, his electric blue eyes scanning the room back and forth. 

 

“Alastor,” I said calmly - as much to soothe myself than to allay him, “do tell me what happened.”

 

I knew, of course, that it was about the young Harry. There weren’t many things that could instigate such a reaction into an old Auror, even less a war veteran. The thing was to understand the extent of the damage before anyone with lesser intentions did, and to deal with the consequence. 

 

“About twenty muggles were found dead in Surrey today. Two streets across Privet Drive,” he said in a uncharastically hushed tone. Immediately, my eyes shot up to meet his in a reflexive attempt to prove to myself that he was saying the truth. But it was of no use; Alastor wasn’t looking at me. “It was a slaughter, Albus. Most of them children. We found the same traces of… Dark magic, for the lack of better words, around.”

 

I had to stop myself from shouting and breaking every damn object in the office, and only pinched my lips, analysing what could be happening. None of this had I foreseen, and thus, the danger could lurk anywhere. I, of course, had my suspicion still that Voldemort wasn’t dead, but suspicions and proof of acts are different things, and I had hoped that we would have more time before another crisis of any sort. 

 

“This is a tragedy, Alastor. Do I trust that the young mister Potter is quite safe?”

 

The silence that followed this statement was far too long for my own sanity. “That’s the problem, Albus. We don’t know.”

 

“You… don’t know.”

 

“We identified two of the corpses as Petunia Dursley and her son. There was no trace of the husband and Potter. No one was home. For all we know, they might be out of town for the day.”

 

He wasn’t out of town. I knew it, deep down. A magical incident of this magnitude, only a few weeks after another similar, in the general place where a young wizard was living - it wasn’t a coincidence. Magic did things that were, in my experience, never a coincidence. 

 

“The press isn’t yet informed, the information is right now being spread in the ministry, so I guess that we have about an hour before everything and more is in the headlines. Quicker, if we don’t find Potter soon.” 

 

“I am very aware of that, Alastor.” 

 

He stiffened and waited silently, thank Merlin. Petunia was dead- this was very, very bad. Potter was nowhere to be found - it was even worse. Two possibilities; Potter is alive, and then I would have to find a way to deal with the child, or Potter is dead. In which case I though the best attitude would simply be to throw myself from the astronomy tower if only to tamper the guilt. Not that I would really do it, of course. It was my duty to guard Hogwarts and to go down with the ship if necessary, protecting my students was the utmost priority. These things that unfortunately necessitated for me to stay alive and mentally stable, no matter what had happened.

 

Think straight, think quick. 

 

“Go and look for Mister Potter. Take other members of the Order with you. I will check on the ministry for the repercussions, and send you reinforcements. ” I said softly, but it was enough for Alastor to take it as the dismissal it was. 

 

I cast a Patronus and sent it to Severus. It might have taken me three tries to do it correctly. 

 

Severus entered my office only twenty minutes later. I proposed Sugar Quills and Tea, which he refused with a stiff shake of his head. He looked positively exhausted - this man was really never meant to be a professor. To live in the dungeons mustn’t have helped with his health either. 

 

“I have the most...dire news to tell you, Severus.” I said simply. For anything, Severus was never fond of misplaced sentimentality. “ Petunia Evans is dead.”

 

Severus was about to sneer - I could already read the question on his face: why should he care about the atrocious _ muggle _ sister of Lily? But as I rose my hand to cut the remark, his face turned serious again. 

 

“ She and her son were killed as well as twenty muggles by an unknown dark wizard, who may have made another victim.”

 

“The schoolteacher.”

 

Severus’ eyes were already blank, devoid of emotions. I wished, at this moment, that I had never been  forced to see this expression on his face again. Fool dreams plotted in vain, of course. 

 

I simply nodded at his interruption. 

 

“We… still, don’t know who did it - and by what means, other than that magic, dark magic was used.”

 

“What of Potter?”

 

The question rang in the air, necessary, yet both of us wishes it hadn’t been spoken. It made no doubt that it was the only preoccupation of my young companion. No, not the child in himself, but what of Lily’s son? What of the child he had sworn to protect on the mother’s grave?

 

“For the moment, not at home, nor his uncle. Our hope is that they are together somewhere out of town. If not…”

 

At this moment, Alastor’s Patronus appeared in my office, its silvery light reflecting on the numerous trinkets that rested on my shelves. “Miss Figg reported. Potter was with his aunt and cousin this morning. She hasn't seen him since.” said Alastor’s voice, strangely hollow and distorted by the spell.

 

The silence that followed the disparition of the Patronus was much more tense and pregnant than I would have wished for. Severus’s eyes were shut and a big frown line had appeared on his forehead. 

 

I opened my mouth to try to temper the storm before it appeared, but Severus was already on his feet, looming over the desk like a walking, very angry shadow. “You said,” he whispered dangerously, “that he would be safe.”

 

I remained calm, of course. I was always calm, it was a quality I had mastered over the years, mostly out of necessity. One doesn’t make a decision in the idle of a war council if one is panicking. Well, no good decisions. It was, however, difficult to stay impassive in front of the raw magical power that emanated from Severus, making the sensible artifacts tremble and shake in little clicky noises. 

 

“Severus, my boy-”

 

“YOU TOLD ME-”

 

He cut himself off, avoiding losing control of himself. It meant a lot that such a stoïc man, used to seeing Voldemort’s crimes without batting an eyelash, would raise his voice as such. The information only registered at the back of my mind as panic and dread were still taking over my mental faculties. 

 

It took me a long minute during which Severus was ranting to remember that all was not lost. 

 

“He’s alive, Severus.”

 

That stopped him in his tracks. He looked at me like I had grown a second head before sitting again. “Is he?” he asked faintly. 

“Do you truly think that I left him in a muggle area without anything - and anyone- to check on him? Miss Figg reported indeed that he was with his aunt and cousin, but the wards around the house - the ones that were keyed to him the night I left him there, are still in place. I didn’t feel them fall, or even shift in the slightest.”

 

There was a moment of silence while Severus was thinking about this information, and probably calculating as far as he could about its consequences. 

 

“Severus.” He rose his eyes, his occlumency shields now once again in full force. “I want you to go to the crime scene to check on any sign that it would have been made by a known Death Eater.”  _ Or by Voldemort  _ wasn’t said, but I knew he understood my request. “Once we have this information, we’ll know more precisely where the child might be.”

 

“Alive… but not unharmed. Not safe.”

 

“Indeed, Severus. That’s why we must hurry.”

 

I hadn’t even finished my sentence before Severus was out of the room. I sigh, noticing that Severus hadn’t had to ask for the address. It would have been foolish of me to think that he would have let me put the child somewhere without having the precise information of where. 

 

You see, Severus was a man of information. As a spy of many years, he collected more files and details than anyone else around him - except for myself, maybe. This capacity to find information was his strength and his downfall. 

 

But it matters not for the moment. 

 

As soon as Severus was out of the office, I took a piece of parchment and scribbled a note to the minister on it. My memory may be lacking, but it said something like: 

 

_ Mylady,  _

 

_ I regret to inform you that the young Mister Potter was seen going to the park of Privet Drive with his aunt and cousin - both muggles, named Dudley Dursley and Petunia Dursley, née Evans. Both were found dead, and the younger Potter is missing, he is, however, alive.  _

 

_ I have sent Severus Snape in order to help discover eventual traces indicating the culprit. Please, do let him do his work. And by that, I mean without an Auror following his every step. I have, of course, an utmost confidence in your men’s responsibility regarding this prudent instance.  _

 

_ It is imperative that not a word of this occurrence get out in the press for at least a week. If it is indeed the act of a lone Death Eater, publicising it would be a rallying cry to all his colleagues.  _

 

_ A public panic might also be avoided by waiting to find more elements before informing the public.  _

 

_ Yours, _

 

_ Albus. P. W.B. Dumbledore. _

 

The panic was, with the exception of Harry’s situation, my priority. If the public knew what had happened, families, people, and creatures classified as “dark”, such as werewolves, vampires, Death Eaters and their relatives, spies, residents of Knockturn Alley, all of them might be targeted by the general anger. 

 

And, as much as I am sure that most of these people knew how to defend themselves, as they were in a large majority already social pariahs and ruthless wizards, I was more anxious about how to cope with their retaliation. 

 

In short, this affair might start another Civil War. Not immediately, of course. Not as long as Harry wasn’t found. But if the child died somehow? The weapons were already out, and soldiers already trained. Most of the Death Eaters only needed an excuse. 

 

Voldemort would return. To let him return with the country in such a state would be giving him the world on a silver plate. 

 

And that, I would only let it happen over my dead body. 

 

Hiding the case, however, wasn’t the best solution, I mused. Something was bound to come out at one point, especially if the murders continued. As long as the prime minister trusted me, I would be quite free with my actions, but the elections weren’t so far away. The press could only be controlled so much. 

 

No matter which angle, it all came back to finding Harry alive, and quickly. 

 

I let myself a moment to mourn on this little boy that I loved like a grandchild - because I knew that if he truly died, I would not have the time to do so. I remembered when, for the first time, Lily put him in my arms. He was so small, wrapped in the blue swaddling clothes with night sky patterns that I had offered him at his birth. His little cheeks were red and round. He still had his eyes closed most of the time, shielding his young eyes from the offensive sunny light.

 

As I looked at him, he opened his eyes, and I sayx for the first time this vivacious green that made - if I may say saw - all of his mother’s beauty. The child waved his fists, closing them and opening them again, trying to touch my face.

 

As one of the jewels I wear in my beard glittered, the child let out a little laugh that illuminated all of his face and made his eyes sparkle - not unlike mines, I must say, and Merlin help me, my heart melted. 

 

I remembered him, about a year later, hiding toys in my pockets. I would only find them once back at Hogwarts. I asked him why he was doing this, and he said “Sad!”, before running to another toy, putting it in my pocket and crying “Happy!” raising his little arms in the air. 

 

I hugged him in thanks. Never had I felt so proud. 

 

I looked at them, the toys, still on my shelves. I kept them, of course. I kept them as a reminder of this joy, this innocence, of the good memories. But I think, deep down, that I kept them to remind myself of what I had done to him. To remind myself how guilty I was, how heavy the debt I would one day have to pay to this child. 

 

I had done what needed to be done for my country, for the Greater Good. 

 

With this assurance, and the determination to find the young Harry and keep him at Hogwarts if need be, I rose from my chair and sent a message to every remaining member of the order. 

 

But Harry was already far, far away. 


	8. Child...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hy! I came back from holidays, and thus back into a more intencive writing. I wanted to say thank you to evry comment and kudos, and to my beta for this chapter: sewerrat!
> 
> A bit of a warning in this chapter, as usual for child abuse and trauma.

Hello, my dears.

 

I am happy that you are all still here, listening to me. I am conscious that the story I am telling isn’t for every ears; but it is necessary, my friends, to see and hear everything.

 

To understand.

 

After the incident, Harry was laying on the ground. His breathing was slow, abnormally so. He was staring at the sky between the trees that were towering above him, the light and the clouds reflecting on his glasses. He felt weak and light. As if his limbs were empty and too fragile to support him.

 

He stayed here a long time. There was no thought in his mind, nothing but the cold damp ground under his back and the harshness of his breathing. One could say that everything was still; but for the child, everything was moving. He was distantly aware of the birds flying in the trees, of the insects crawling on the ground.

 

Harry wasn’t sure that he wanted to get up. It seemed for him that moving would make everything real.

 

But that simple thought was enough for his mind to get back on track. His chest was pierced by a sharp pain and his eyes watered, from the mental or physical pain he didn’t know, nor care to.

 

No tear fell.

 

It was all too much for him; and his mind, already assaulted by so much information, torn in so many ways, simply shut it all down, leaving him suddenly hollow, with a dull pain somewhere in his chest, a pressure behind his eyes. Slowly, he hoisted himself up onto his elbows.

 

The cool breeze made him shiver.

 

He looked around him. He didn’t know where he was, and could only see trees in every direction.

 

"Aunt Petunia?"

 

His voice echoed against the trees. There was no answer. "Dudley? Aunt Petunia?" he called again with a bit more desperation. His voice was faint and raw, it broke after only one or two cries.

 

He was alone.

 

He was also cold, tired, and lost. He was too young to be able to fall on his feet so soon - many adults wouldn’t have been able to either. So he simply sat there, looking around for a long, long time.

 

Then, he saw it. It was a flash in the middle of the trees, indiscernible without his glasses. But he knew the noise.

 

A car.

 

And a car meant a road and a road a city; there was always food in cities. And people.

 

But he wasn’t sure he wanted to see people. He wasn’t sure it would be safe. For a moment, he thought to stay in the forest, but it would mean to sleep here, in the dark, alone.

 

The choice was quite easy.

 

So Harry got up on his small, trembling legs, cradled his oversized jumper around him and started to walk.

 

Far, far away from young Harry, a man was sleeping. He was laying on an old cot, an old cloth vaguely resembling a blanket covered him.

 

The man had been stuck in this room for years - decades, really.

 

The man was alone - he had been for a long, very long time. He never lost his mind - some said the walls of his prison were made out of love, but maybe it was his own, stubborn temper that allowed him to continue… being, somehow.

 

The man was dreaming, and he dreamt, and dreamt. In them, the man could see many thing, the present, sometimes the future. He never saw the past, or if he did, he quickly forgot it.

 

And the man, old as he was, dreamt of a little boy that looked like another boy he had known - a boy that had died of despair a long, long time ago.

 

One would imagine the man had felt sadness for the first boy, and would feel the same for the second, but that wasn’t the case. He had always put the interest of his cause before his own, and his owns before anyone else. Where one would have seen a child, the man saw an opportunity.

 

It may sound horrible, but, my friend, that is how the world is ruled. I believe that some of you already know.

 

When Gellert Grindelwald opened his eyes, he stared at the ceiling for a long, long time. He had promised himself - he told it to me a few years later - to wait and die in the jail, or to be killed by me. It seemed like justice to him.

 

But Gellert Grindelwald was a man of belief.

 

He was a child of the worst kind of war.

 

He was afraid. Afraid of... Of being wrong, of being right, of being nothing. Of being the forgotten tomb of the unnamed soldier, the scattered ash above the camp, the vanished face on the photograph, unknown, unwanted, forgotten.

 

He already was, in a sense… but that boy… He saw the same thing I saw when I took him in my arms, still dusty from the crumbles of his house: potential, of maybe…. maybe something akin to hope.

 

Our hopes weren't the same, of course. Not even remotely alike- yet similar in their nature. Perhaps... it was this similarity that made it even more dangerous.

 

Belief can be a salvation, and a damnation at the same time. It is a powerful thing, perhaps the most powerful of them all.

 

And full of this belief, Grindelwald rose, and, for the first time since 1945, wrote a letter to one of his numerous admirers.

 

Back in England, Moody was about to knock on the Dursleys’ household, while one of his men looked around them for any threat.

 

He heard a muffled “Boy! Door, now!”, before a few mumbled words. The man slightly opened the door, looking suspiciously at anyone who would have dare ring the bell.

 

“Yes?” The large man snapped before recognising Moody. “Is there a problem?” he asked more politely.

 

There might have been a bit too much anticipation in his voice at the prospect.

 

“Can we come inside? I’m afraid that you may want to sit.”

 

Frowning, the large man let them enter- it would not be good to let the neighbors see people waiting on his doorstep after all.

 

A few minutes later, they were all sitting in the living room, without a cup of tea. It was Petunia’s job to offer tea or coffee; as a man should not have to take care of the kitchen.

 

“I’m afraid I have very bad news, Mr. Dursley. Your wife and son were found dead this evening.”

 

The silence that fell on the room was icy. The large man had turned completely pale, but did not move nor did he uttered a word. It was a very unusual reaction for someone with Vernon’s mindset, and Moody, who had expected an explosion, found himself waiting for the shoe to drop on the muggle’s sofa.

 

“Get out.”

 

“Sir, don’t you want to-”

 

“I SAID GET OUT!”

 

No matter how unimpressed Moody was at the man anger, or at his screaming, he was respectful enough of his pain to get up and leave the house. He left a small note with a phone number on the kitchen’s table - the number of the muggle-relations department, in case the man would want to know exactly what had happen.

 

What Moody didn’t know, was that Vernon had already come to his own conclusion. However misguided in their intention, they were surprisingly close to the truth.

 

His dear Petunia was dead. His son, perfect little angel, gone forever.

 

And it was all Harry’s fault.

 

It was obvious - the man always knew the child would be trouble. His mistake, he thought, had been to take him as a freak. No, he wasn’t a freak. He was a monster.

 

He should have smothered the beast when it was just an infant.

 

Shaking with repressed fury, Vernon got up on his feet. He had to avenge his family, he had to put the freak down.

 

Everybody else, surely, was too weak to do so. The Freak was deceiving, with his big green eyes and pale little hands. No, no one else knew the truth.

 

It was his duty, he thought, convincing himself that the tears that were rolling on his cheeks weren’t there. It wash his right, too.

 

Maybe, if he had beaten the freak a bit more, none of this would have happened.

 

Vernon got upstairs,and went in his and Petunia’s rooms. He reached for something on the shelf and took a small box out. He sat on the bad, still pretending he wasn’t shaking.

 

He opened the box.

 

The metal of the gun seemed to glisten in his hands.

 

Miles away from there, the young Harry had finally reached the road. To be truthful, the road wasn’t more reassuring than the forest. It was long, silent, and there was no indication of where it was supposed to lead in any direction.

 

Harry wished he could have a teddybear to squeeze, and, not knowing what else to do, picked a direction at random and started walking.

 

He was hungry.

 

He hadn’t eaten since yesterday - when his aunt had tossed him a bit of bread and given a glass of milk. It wasn’t enough, and he knew it. But above everything, he was thirsty, and more tired than he had ever been.

 

His mouth pinched, his eye closed, he kept walking. He hugged his middle, wanting to stomp his foot, to throw a tantrum, to sit on the bitume and cry, and cry, and cry, until someone came to take him somewhere warm and nice.

 

But a mean, loud voice in his head was telling him that he didn’t deserve to be picked up, to stop walking, and to just cry. It was all his fault if he was in this situation, because he was a freak so he had to get out of the situation on his own.

 

But his legs were starting to get weaker, and he kept yawning.

 

Not being able to go further, he sat on the side of the road, and fell asleep right there.

 

When the young Harry woke up, he stared at a white ceiling, trying in vain to calm the panic slowly rising in him.

 

He didn’t know where he was. Worse, he didn’t know in what type of place he was. There was stranges noises around, and a strong smell that reminded him of the cleaning products Aunt Petunia kept in his cupboard.

 

But it was too light to be his cupboard.

 

He didn’t like it. Any of it.

 

He propped himself on his elbow, trying to comprehend where he was, but the room was all white and blurry. He had lost his glasses. The idea almost sent him into hysterics - what would Aunt Petunia say when she sees him without his glasses? Would she tell Vernon, would Harry be locked up in his cupboard again?

 

Harry was shaking in fear- and things were shaking around him, the machines sounds were become more and more insistent.

 

He heard someone starting to turn the doorknob. Quicker than it should have been possible, the child was hidden under the bed, trying to control his shaking breath to become even more silent.

 

“Excuse me?”

 

He could see the feet of the nurse looking for him in the room. He prayed that she would go away - but she did not. She just had to follow the transfusion tube to guess where the child was.

 

In truth, she didn’t quite know what to do after that.

 

“Hey kid, I’m not going to hurt you. But you need to get out of under the bed, right?” She said in a soothing tone.

 

But Harry heard the tremor in her voice, and it didn’t reassure him at all. She must have been scared of him, she must have known. Scared out of his wits, little Harry cowered even further under the bed.

 

The nurse kneeled. She could only see the frightened face of the child and his impossibly green eyes, filled with terror - and something else she couldn’t quite place.

 

She sight and got up. She went into the corridor, looking for her colleague. “Can you call a doc?” she asked, “And do we know when the social services will arrive?”

 

“I don’t know, in an hour or so, surely. They’re sort of overworked these days, why?”

 

“The kid - the one we found on the road.” She said, as the other nodded he assent, “I just found him under the bed. He’s completely terrified, I don’t know what to do!”

 

“Have you tried to coerce him out of there?”

 

“Yes, he didn’t even answer…”

 

The second nurse pinched her lips in disapproval. “I’ve seen things like that - sometimes. We did a few check-ups while the kid was asleep: he was malnourished and had traces of abuse. If he’s scared, you will have a hard time getting him out of under that bed.”

 

“It’s the cops we should have called…”

 

“Anya.” The first nurse rose her head at her name, “I know you haven’t been there for long, but we have procedures. First, the social services, to take care of the kid, then the cops.”

 

Unknown to the two women, Harry had already gotten out from under the bed, to listen to them from the other side of the door- a habit he had learned from the years in his cupboard. He clasped his little hand on the wound of the torn transfusion.

 

He couldn't hear everything, of course, nor understand what the two women were talking about but he heard one thing:

 

Police.

 

So that was where he was. Surely, this strange place was somewhere they put the criminals, the mean little boys and the freaks before sending them to jail. It probably was why the strange woman had tried to be nice. People weren't really nice for truth, he knew. She just wanted to grab him to send him to jail.

 

A part of him was telling him that he belonged there, but another part, far stronger in its’ panic, blocked on the idea of being locked up. Prison was, in his mind, somewhere like his cupboard - except that he would never be able to get out of the dark, cold, confined space.

 

Horror gripped him, but before he had the time to make a run for it, he heard steps coming closer of the door. He ran back under the bed. 

 

It the end, the two nurses gave up the idea to get Harry out by themselves - and it took about five people to drag the child from his shelter once the social services arrived. The man who finally managed to catch him had to hold him against his chest in a tight grip for fear that the child’s struggles would allow him to run away - or to harm anyone. 

 

Once he touched the mattress, Harry’s head slumped in defeat. He prepared himself to take whatever blow that would be coming for him, his hands dutifully crossed on his lap. The adults were discussing softly, make sharp gestures. He didn’t understood what they were saying - he didn’t really tried to - but he thought they must have been disgusted that they had had to touch a freak.

 

In shame, he kept his eyes lowered on his lap. 

 

“Hey, kid.”

 

When Harry looked up, all the adults were out, except for three of them. They were calm, but staring at him. LIke they wanted something from him - but Harry didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to talk to  _ them _ . What was the point? They wouldn’t listen, call him a liar and send him to jail anyway. 

 

It was the woman who had talked. She was pretty, with a soft face, but strict, rich clothes. She looked like the moms Aunt Petunia always looked at in envy. 

 

His eyes only stayed a few seconds on them before looking down again.

 

“I am Amanda. I am here to help you, like I helped many little ones like you before.” She said kindly. “Child, what is your name?”

 

Harry didn’t answer. What was his name? Did it matter? The truth was that - even if he had wanted to answer, he wasn’t sure he  _ could have _ . 

 

There was a few seconds of silence.

 

“Can you talk?”

 

Her voice was soft - like her face. Harry didn’t want to look at her, but he did. He didn’t know why. 

 

He still didn’t answer. 

 

“Maybe you could write your name on this paper?” She asked softly. She got up from her chair, without straightening up, so as not to frighten him. Harry was still shaking a little. Slowly, she put a sheet of paper on the edge of the bed, with one of those big pencils that one gives to a child for practice.

 

Slowly Harry took them, ready to retract his hand at any moment. But the woman didn’t move from her chair, and kept looking at him with something strange in her eyes.

 

He wasn’t sure he like what was in her eyes. He didn’t like what he didn’t know. 

 

Harry flattened the paper on his lap in a futile effort to find a writing stand, and began to trace his letters studiously. 

 

After awhile, he contemplated his handiwork. He didn’t want to mess up, thinking that maybe if he was good, the lady would give him a bit of food. 

 

“Have you finished, boy?”

 

Harry froze. The man, one of the cops next to the door (the one Harry had thrashed against a few minutes earlier) hadn’t even said it harshly, but it was too late. Harry hand had tensed against the paper, crumpling the sides. His eyes didn’t shoot up; he was too scared of what he would see. 

 

The normally calm and constant sound of the machine he was linked to started to sound a little faster. The woman shot a glance at it and pursed her lips. 

 

Behind Harry, his shadow started to grow bigger. 

 

“It’s ok, it’s ok...” tried to smooth the woman, “If you don’t want to show it now, you can not do it…”

 

But her words were sliding against Harry, who was starting to bring his legs closer to his chest for fear they would take the first blow. 

 

He wanted to get out. 

 

He wasn’t safe here. He just wanted out, but the door was blocked by three adults - three, who, in the sideway of his vision, looked like big, menacing shadows towering over him. There was no way to pass with force: they had manage to put him on the bed when he was much better hidden than now. 

 

He wanted out.

 

There was a strange, plaintive noise in the room. It took him a moment to understand that it was coming from him. 

 

He didn’t even know where he was- did these people kidnap him? He doubted that anyone would pay a ransom for him, didn’t they see that he had no worth?

 

“Can I get out?” He thought he asked, but no sound came out of his mouth.

 

He received no answer. Would had have received one, he probably would have listened anyway. The panic was creeping its way on his bones, leaving him with a sole idea : if he got out he would be safe. 

 

His shadow split as the monster that had found its way in his core started to pour out of him, crawling on the wall as smoke lick the burning wood. His eyes were still locked on his hands in front of him, he couldn’t see the look of horror on the people in front of him, how two of them had take their guns out, how the woman that had spoken so softly to him earlier had fallen from her chair. 

 

The child’s eyes became white when the terrified face of his aunt appeared in the maletrom of self hate and rage. He lost control once again. 

 

The smoke spread through the room in strange, organic pulsations under the gaze of growing horror of everyone present. The policemen didn't dare shoot at what looked like a very flammable substance, but their guns weren't lowered either, trembling in their hands.

 

The smoke stopped. The light flickered out and broke in a little metallic noise.

 

The obscurus attacked. It didn't really made a difference between its victims - they were all too new, too unknown for any deep hatred, or caring, to be stuck deeply enough to matter. It rushed on them, tearing, cutting, until the way was free.

 

The obscurus passed through the door in a scream, and flashed through the corridors of the hospital, cutting every human being in its path. But, once it arrived at the end of the corridor, the entity found itself stuck against a closed door.

 

It was stuck.

 

It hated to be stuck. It reminded him of the little, too clean house of Privet Drive, it reminded him of the cupboard, it reminded him of the grip of Uncle Vernon's hand on his forearm.

 

So the obscurus turned and turned within the hospital, causing more destruction every time. In the end, the entity raised to the ceiling, creating an infernal dome of pulsing black smoke over the whole floor.

 

It  _ pushed _ . 

 

Harry, in his cocoon of black smoke, refused to see what was happening, to hear the screams. He let his mind wander on how he would have liked to be held, to be patted over the head like he had saw parents do to their children in the park. 

 

When the floor scrambled, the sound reminded him of the fireworks he had heard from his cupboard, some years ago. 

 

It reminded him of the planes flying over London, of the people running in the streets, of the building falling all over the others,  _ falling all over him _ . 

 

He wasn’t conscious that these weren’t his memories - he couldn’t even imagine such thing could happen, and even if he had… There is not much difference between two screaming minds, two wills to live. He had lived with  _ It _ for much of his life, how could he have felt the alien presence? 

 

It was at this moment that the police arrived. The sight of the blue lights and the noise of their sirens sent the obscurus wild. Wilder, that is. The creature expended, again and again like those dark cloud that announce the arrival of the storm, fed by the conflict inside its host. Until there wasn’t anything to feed on anymore. 

 

Young Harry had lost consciousness. 

 

Well, I think it is all for today. Do not worry; the story will go on, and your questions answered. But I can see for here that many of you are tired. This story, like every tragedy, need to be listened to with a clear mind...

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everybody!
> 
> This is a new story about Harry as an obscurial. I know someone ( many people) probably already did it, but I wanted to give it a shot. I don't think I will go for an evil/dark Harry, but mostly for something about how feeling and situations make you do things you wouldn't otherwise. So no evil laugh and happy killing here. I'll update it quite often as soon as I found a beta.
> 
> Of course, the story will touch some hard topics: child neglect/ abuse, manipulation, physical and psychological trauma, abusive relationships and probably other things of that kind, so if you cannot guts theses, this fanfic isn't for you.
> 
> Also, there is slash I'm not sure yet, but I think I will go for some twisted HPLV. Maybe.
> 
> The first chapter is quite short as it is mostly some sort of introduction, but don't worry it will be much longer after! Don't hesitate to tell me what you think about it!
> 
> ~LadyBraken
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Including the computer I'm writing on. Sad life, really.


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